Married

Google

This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on Hbrary shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project

to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the

publisher to a library and finally to you.

Usage guidelines

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing this resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for informing people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.

About Google Book Search

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web

at |http : //books . google . com/|

/J t ^ 'ROPHRTY OP

y y -J. -v .. ft .^..

•SI?

A f 7

HE MODERN LIBRARY

OF THE world's BEST BOOKS

MARRIED

The Publishers will be glad to mail
complete Kst of titles in the Modem
Library. The list is representative
of the Great Modems and is one of
the most important contributions
to publishing that has been made
for many years. Every reader of
books will find titles he needs at a
low price in an attractive forai.

MARRIED

By AUGUST STRINDBERG

BONI AND LIVERIGHT, INC.

PUBLISHERS .-. .-. NEW YORK

FT
7S/3
,CrS3

COPYKIGHT
I917

BY BONl & UVEWGHT, DC

CONTENTS

PAOS

ASRA . k ...... 7

Love and Bread . . . . . .41

Compelled to 55

Compensation 77

Frictions . . . . . . . .85

Unnatural Selection ..... 99

An Attempt at Reform 105

A Natural Obstacle ...... 109

A Doll's House . . . . . .119

Phcenix . . . .... . 139

Romeo and Julia ...... 145

Prolificacy ....... 149

Autumn . . . . . . . -159

Compulsory Marriage 173

CoRiNNA 187

Unmarried and Married 217

A Duel . . 225

His Servant 241

The Breadwinner • . . a ^ • 247

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Strindberg's works in English translation : Plays translatec
Edwin Bjorkman; Master Olof, American Scandinavian Fc
dation, 1915; The Dream Play, The Link, The Dance of De
New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1912; Swanwhite, Simi
Debit and Credit, Advent, The Thunderstorm, After the i
the same, 1913 ; There Are Crimes and Crimes, Miss Julia,
Stronger, Creditors, Pariah, the same, 1913; Bridal Crown,
Spook Sonata, The First Warning, Gustavus Vasa, the si
1916. Plays translated by Edith and Warner Oland, Bos
Luce & Co., Vol. I (1912), The Father, Countess Julie,
Stronger, The Outlaw; Vol. II (1912), Facing Death, Ea,
Pariah, Comrades; Vol. Ill (1914), Swanwhite, Advent,
Storm. Lucky Pehr, tr. by Velma Swanston Howard, <
cinnati, Stewart & Kidd Co., 1912.

The Red Room, tr. by Ellie Schleussner, New York, Putna
1913 ; Confession of a Fool, tr. by S. Swift, London, F. Pali
1912 ; The German Lieutenant and Other Stories, Chicago, A
McClurg & Co., 1915 ; In Midsummer Days and Other Tales
by Ellie Schleussner, London, H. Latimer, 1913; Motherlove
by Francis J. Ziegler, Philadelphia, Brown Bros., 2nd ed., 1
On the Seaboard, tr. by Elizabeth Qarke Westergren, Cir
nati, Stewart & Kidd Co., 1913; The Son of a Servant, tr
Claud Field, introduction by Henry Vacher-Burch, New Y
Putnam s, 1913; The Growth of a Soul, tr. by Claud Field, 1
don, W. Rider & Co., 1913 ; The Inferno, tr. by Claud Field, ]
York, Putnam's, 1913 ; Legends, Autobiographical Sketches, 1
don, A. Melrose, 1912; Zones of the Spirit, tr. by Qaud F
introduction by Arthur Babillotte, London, G. Allen & Co.

INTRODUCTION

These stories originally appeared in two volumes, the first
in 1884, the second in 1886. The latter part of the present edition
is thus separated from the first part by a lapse of two years.

Strindberg's views were continually undergoing changes. Con-
stancy was never a trait of his. He himself tells us that opinions
are but the reflection of a man's experiences, changing as his
experiences change. In the two years following the publica-
tion of the first volume, Strindberg's experiences were such as
to exercise a decisive influence on his views on the woman
question and to transmute his early predisposition to woman-
hating from a passive tendency to a positive, active force in his
character and writing.

Strindberg's art in Married is of the propagandist, of the
fighter for a cause. He has a lesson to convey and he makes
frankly for his goal without attempting to conceal his purpose
under the gloss of "pure" art. He chooses the story form in
preference to the treatise as a more powerful medium to drive
home his ideas. That the result has proved successful is due
to the happy admixture in Strindberg of thinker and artist. His
artist's sense never permitted him to distort or misrepresent the
truth for the sake of proving his theories. In fact, he arrived
at his theories not as a scholar through the study of books, but
as an artist through the experience of life. When life had
impressed upon him what seemed to him a truth, he then applied
his intellect to it to bolster up that truth. Hence it is that,
however opinionated Strindberg may at times seem, his writings
carry that conviction which we receive only when the author
reproduces truths he has obtained first-hand from life. One-
sided he may occasionally be in Married, especially in the later
stories, but rarely unfaithful. His manner is often to throw
such a glaring searchlight upon one spot of life that all the
rest of it stays in darkness; but the places he does show up
are never unimportant or trivial. They are well worth seeing
with Strindberg's brilliant illumination thrown upon them.

August Strindberg has left a remarkably rich record of his

5

6 INTRODUCTION

life in various works, especially in his autobiographical series
of novels. He was bom in 1849 in Stockholm. His was a sad
childhood passed in extreme poverty. He succeeded in entering
the University of Upsala in 1867, but was forced for a time
on account of lack of means to interrupt his studies. He tried
his fortune as schoolmaster, actor, and journalist and made an
attempt to study medicine. All the while he was active in a
literary way, composing his first plays in 1869. In 1874 he
obtained a position in the Royal Librs^ry, where he devoted him-
self to scientific studies, learned Chinese in order to catalogue
the Chinese manuscripts, and wrote an erudite monograph which
was read at the Academy of Inscriptions in Paris.

His first important literary productions were the drama Master
Olof (1878) and the novel The Red Room (1879). Disheart-
ened by the failure of Master Olof, he gave up literature for a
long time. When he returned to it, he displayed an amazing
productivity. Work followed work in quick succession — novels,
short stories, dramas, histories, historical studies, and essays.
The Swedish People is said to be the most popular book in
Sweden next to the Bible. The mere enumeration of his writings
would occupy more than two pages. His versatility led him to
make researches in physics and chemistry and natural science
and to write on those subjects.

Through works like The Red Room, Married, and the dramas
The Father asd Miss Julia, Strindberg attached himself to the
naturalistic school of literature. Another period of literary in-
activity followed, during which he passed through a mental crisis
akin to insanity. When he returned to the writing of novels
and dramas he was no longer a naturalist, but a symbolist and
mystic. Among the plays he composed in this style are To
Damascus, The Dream Play, and The Great Highway.

Strindberg married three times, divorced his first two wives,
but separated amicably from the third. He died in 1913. The
vast demonstration at his funeral, attended by the laboring
classes as well as by the "upper" classes, proved that, in spite
of the antagonisms he had aroused, Sweden unanimously awarded
him the highest place in her literature.

Thomas Seltzer.

ASRA

HE had just completed his thirteenth yeai^ when his
mother died. He felt that he had lost a real friend,
for during the twelve months of her illness he had come to
know her personally, as it were, and established a relation-
ship between them which is rare between parents and chil-
dren. He was a clever boy and had developed early; he
had read a great many books besides his schoolbooks, for
his father, a professor of botany at the Academy of Science,
possessed a very good library. His mother, on the other
hand, was not a well-educated woman; she had merely
been head housekeeper and children's nurse in her hus-
band's house. Numerous births and coimtless vigils (she
had not slept through a single night for the last sixteen
years), had exhausted her strength, and when she became
bedridden, at the age of thirty-nine, and was no longer able
to look after her house, she made the acquaintance of her
second son; her eldest boy was at a military school and
only at home during the week ends.

Now that her part as mother of the family was played
to the end and nothing remained of her but a poor invalid,
the old-fashioned relationship of strict discipline, that bar-
rier between parents and children, was superseded. The
thirteen-year-old son was almost constantly at her bedside,
reading to her whenever he was not at school or doing home
lessons. She had many questions to ask and he had a
great deal to explain, and therefore all those distinguishing
marks erected by age and position vanished, one after the
other: if there was a superior at all, it was the son. But
the mother, too, had much to teach, for she had learnt her
lessons in the school of life; and so they were alternately
teacher and pupil. They discussed all subjects. With the
tact of a mother and the modesty of the other sex she told
her son all he ought to know of the mystery of life. He
was still innocent, but he had heard many things discussed

7

8 ASRA

by the boys at school which had shocked and disgusted him.
The mother explained to him all she could explain; warned
him of the greatest danger to a yoimg man, and exacted a
promise from him never to visit a house of ill-fame, not
even out of curiosity, because, as she pointed out, in such
a case no man could ever trust himself. And she implored
him to live a temperate life, and turn to God in prayer
whenever temptation assaulted him.

His father was entirely devoted to science, which was a
sealed book to his wife. When the mother was already on
the point of death, he made a discovery which he hoped
would make his name immortal in the scientific world. He
discovered, on a rubbish heap, outside the gates of Stock-
holm, a new kind of goose-foot with curved hairs on the
usually straight-haired calyx. He was in communication
with the Berlin Academy of Sciences, and the latter was
even now considering the advisability of including the new
variety in the "Flora Germanica"; he was daily expecting
to hear whether or not the Academy had decided to im-
mortalise his name by calling the plant Chenopodium Wen-
nerstroemianium. At his wife's death-bed he was absent-
minded, almost imkind, for he had just received an answer
in the affirmative, and he fretted because neither he nor
his wife could enjoy the great news. She thought only of
heaven and her diildren. He could not help realising that
to talk to her now of a calyx with curved hairs would be
the height of absurdity; but, he justified himself, it was not
so mu(£ a question of a calyx with straight or curved hairs,
as of a scientific discovery; and, more than that, it was a
question of his future and the future of his children, for
their father's distinction meant bread for them.

When his wife died on the following evening, he cried
bitterly; he had not shed a tear for many years. He wa«
tortured by remorse, remembered even the tiniest wrong he
had ever done her, for he had been, on the whole, an ex-
emplary husband; his indifference, his absent-mindedness
of the previous day, filled him with shame and regret, and
in a moment of blankness he realised all the pettishness
and selfishness of his science which, he had imagined, was
benefiting mankind. But these emotions were short-lived;

ASRA 9

if you open a door with a spring behind it, it will dose
again immediately. On the following morning, after he had
drawn up an announcement of her death for the papers, he
wrote a letter of thanks to the Berlin Academy of Sciences.
After that he resumed his work.

When he came home to dinner, he longed for his wife,
so that he might tell her of his success, for ^e had always
been his truest friend, the only human being who had never
been jealous or envious. Now he missed this loyal com-
panion on whose approval he could count as a matter of
course; never once had she contradicted him, for since he
never told her more than the practical result of his re-^
searches, there was no room for argument. For a moment
the thought occurred to him that he might make friends
with his son; but they knew each other too little; their
relationship was that of officer and private soldier. His
superior rank did not permit him to make advances; more-
over, he regarded the boy with suspicion, because the latter
possessed a keener intellect and had read a number of new
books which were unknown to him; occasionally it even
happened that the father, the professor, plainly revealed
his ignorance to his ^on, the school-boy. In such cases the
father was either compelled to dismiss the argument, with
a few contemptuous remarks to "these new follies," or
peremptorily order the school-boy to attend to his lessons.
Once or twice, in self-defence, the son had produced one
or other of 'his school-books ; the professor had lost his
temper and wished.the new school-books to hell.

And so it came about that the father devoted himself to
his collections of dried plants and the son went his own
way.

They lived in a quiet street to the left of the Observatory,
in a small, one-storey house, built of bricks, and surroundol
by a large garden; the garden was once the property of the
Horticultural Society, and had come into the professor's
possession by inheritance. But since he studied descriptive
botany, and took no interest in the much more interesting
subjects of the physiology and morphology of plants, a sci-
ence which was as good as unknown m his youth, he was
practically a stranger to living nature. He allowed the gar'

10 ASRA

den with its many splendours to become a wilderness, and
finally let it to a gardener on conditio! that he and his
children should be allowed certain privileges. The son used
the garden as a park and enjoyed its beauty as he foimd it,
without taking Uie trouble to try and understand it scien-
tifically.

One might compare the boy's character to an ill-propor-
tioned compensation penduliun; it contained too much of
the soft metal of the mother, not enough of the hard metal
of the father. Friction and irregular oscillations were the
natural consequences. Now he was full of sentiment, now
hard and sceptical. His mother's death affected him beyond
words. He mourned her deeply, and she always lived in
his memory as the personification of all that was good
and great and beautiful.

He wasted the summer following her death in brooding
and novel-reading. Grief, and to no small extent idleness,
had shaken his whole nervous system and quickened his
imagination. His tears had been like warm April showers
falling on fruit trees, wakening them to a precocious
burgeoning: but alas! only too often the blossoms are
doomed to wither and perish in a frosty May nigjbt, be-
fore the fruit has had time to set.

He was fifteen years old and had therefore arrived
at the age when civilised man attains to manhood and
is ripe to give life to a new generation, but is prevented
from doing so by his inability to maintain a family. Con**
sequently he was about to begin the ten years' martyrdom
which a young man is called upon to endure in the strug-
gle against an overwhelming force of nature, before he
is in a position to fulfil her laws.

It is a warm afternoon about Whitsuntide. The apple-
trees are gorgeous in their white splendour which nature
has showered all over them with a profuse hand. The
breeze shakes the crowns and fills the air with pollen; a
part of it fulfils its destination and creates new life, a
part sinks to the ground and dies. What is a handful
of pollen more or less in the inexhaustible store-house of
nature! The fertilised blossom casts off its delicate petals

ASRA II

which flutter to the ground and wither; they decay in
the rain and are ground to dust, to rise again through
the sap and re-appear as blossoms, and this time, perhaps,
to become fruit. But now the struggle begins: those which
a kind fate has placed on the sunny side, thrive and pros-
per; the seed bud swells, and if no frost intervenes, the
fruit, in due time, will set. But those which look to-
wards the North, the poor things which grow in the shadow
of the others and never see the sun, are predestined to
fade and fall off; the gardener rakes them together and
carts them to the pig-sty.

Behold the apple-tree now, its branches laden with half*
ripe fruit, little, round, golden apples with rosy cheeks.
A fresh struggle begins: if all remain alive, the branches
will not be able to bear their weight, the tree will perish.
A gale shakes the branches. It requires firm stems to hold
on. Woe to the weaklings! they are condemned to
destruction.

A fresh danger! The apple- weevil appears upon the
scene. It, too, has to maintain life and to fulfil a duty
towards its progeny. The grub eats its way through the
fruit to the stem and the apple falls to the groimd. But
the dainty beetle chooses the strongest and soundest for
its brood, otherwise too many of tibe strong ones would
be allowed to live, and competition would become over-
keen.

The hour of twilight, the gathering dusk, arouses the
passionate instincts of the beast-world. The night-crow
crouches on the newly-dug flower-bed to lure its mate.
Which of the eager males shall carry the prize? Let them
decide the question!

The cat, sleek and warm, fresh from her evening milk,
steals away from her comer by the hearth and picks her
way carefully among daffodils and lilies, afraid lest the
dew make her coat damp and ragged before her lover
joins her. She sniffs at the young lavender and calls.
Her call is answered by the black tom-cat which appears,
broad-backed like a marten, on the neighbour's fence; but
the gardener's tortoise-shell approaches from the cow-shed
and the fight begins. Handfuls of the rich, black soil are

12 ASRA

flying about in all directions, and the newly-planted rad^
ishes and spinach plants are roughly awakened from their
quiet sleep and dreams of the future. The stronger of th^
two remains in possession of the field, and the female awaits
complacently the frenetic embraces of the victor. The van-
quished flies to engage in a new struggle in which, perhaps,
victory will smile on him.

Nature smiles, content, for she knows of no other sin
than the sin against her law; she is on the side of the
strong for her desire is for strong children, even though
she should have to kill the "eternal ego" of the insignificant
individual. And there is no prudery, no hesitation, no
fear of consequences, for nature has plenty of food for
all her children— except mankind.

After supper he went for a walk in the garden while
his father sat down at his bed-room window to smoke a
pipe and read the evening paper. He strolled along the
paths, revelling in the delicious odours which a plant only
exhales when it is in full bloom, and which is the finest and
strongest extract of etheric oils, containing in a condensed
form the full strength of the individual, destined to be-
come the representative of the species. He Hstened to the
nuptial song of the insects above the lime trees, which
rings in our ears like a funeral dirge: he heard the purring
call of the night-crow; the ardent mewing of the cat, which
sounds as if death, and not life, were wooing; the humming
note of the dung-beetle, the fluttering of &e large moths,
the thin peeping of the bats.

He stopped before a bed of narcissus, gathered one of
the while, starry flowers, and inhaled its perfume until
he felt the blood hammering in his temples. He had never
examined this flower minutely. But during the last term
they had read Ovid's story of Narcissus. He had not dis-
covered a deeper meaning in the legend. What did it
mean, this story of a youth who, from unrequited love,
turned his ardour upon himself and was consumed by the
flame when he fell in love with his own likeness seen in
a well? As he stood, examining the white, cup-shaped
petals, pale as the cheeks of an invalid with fine red lines

ASRA 13

such as one may see in the faces of consumptives when a
pitiless cough forces the blood into the extremest and tini-
est blood-vesselSy he thought of a school-fellow, a yoimg
aristocrat; who was a midshipman now; he looked like
that.

When he had inhaled the scent of the flower for some
time, the strong odour of cloves disappeared and left
but a disagreeable, soapy smell which made him feel
sick.

He sauntered on to where the path turned to the right
and finally lost itself in an avenue planted on both sides
with elm-trees whose branches had grown together and
formed an arch overhead. In the semi-darkness, far down
the perspective, he could see a large green swing, sus-
pended by ropes, slowly moving backwards and forwards.
A girl stood on the back board, gently swinging herself
by bending her knees and throwing her body forward,
while she dimg, with arms raised high above her head,
to the ropes at her side. He recognised the gardener's
daughter, a girl who had been confirmed last Easter and
had just begun to wear long skirts. To-night, however,
she was dressed in one of her old dresses which barely
reached to her ankles.

The sight of the yotmg man embarrassed her, for she
remembered the shortness of her skirt, but she neverthe-
less remained on the swing. He advanced and looked
at her.

"Go away, Mr. Theodore," said the girl, giving the
swing a vigorous push.

"Why should I?" answered the youth, who felt the
draught of her fluttering skirts on his throbbing temples.

"Because I want you to," said the girl.

"Let me come up, too, and 111 swing you, Gussie,"
pleaded Theodore, springing on to the board.

Now he was standing on the swing, facing her. And
when they rose into the air, he felt her skirts flapping
against his legs, and when they descended, he bent over
her and looked into her eyes which were brilliant with fear
and enjo3anent. Her thin cotton blouse fitted tightly and
^owed every line of her young figure; her sibling Ups

14 ASRA

were half-open^ displaying two rows of sound white teeth,
which looked as if they would like to bite or kiss lum.

Higher and higher rose the swing, until it struck the
topmost branches of the maple. The girl screamed and
fell forward, into his arms; he was piiushed over, on to
the seat. The trembling of the soft warm body which
nestled closely in his arms, sent an electric shock through
his whole nervous system; a black veil descended before
his eyes and he woidd have let her go if her left shoulder
had not been tightly pressed against his right arm.

The speed of the swing slackened. She rose and sat on
the seat facing him. And thus they remained with down-
cast eyes, not daring to look one another in the face.

When the swing stopped, the girl slipped off the seat
and ran away as if she were answering a call. Theodore
was left alone. He felt the blood surging in his veins. It
seemed to him that his strength was redoubled. But he
could not grasp what had happened. He vaguely conceived
himself as an electrophor whose positive electricity, in dis-
charging, had combined with the negative. It had hap-*
pened during a quite ordinary, to all appearances chaste,
contact with a young woman. He had never felt the same
emotion in wrestling, for instance, with his school-fellows
in the play-ground. He had come into contact with the
opposite polarity of the female sex and now he knew what
it meant to be a man. For he was a man, not a pre-
cocious boy, kicking over the traces; he was a strong, hardy,
healthy youth.

As he strolled along, up and down the garden paths,
new thoughts formed in his brain. Life looked at him
with graver eyes, he felt conscious of a sense of duty. But
he was only fifteen years old. He was not yet confirmed
and many years would have to elapse before he would
be considered an independent member of the commtmity,
before he would be able to earn a living for himself, let
alone maintain a wife and family. He took life seriously,
the thought of light adventures never occurred to him.
Wo ^ 'e to him something sacred, his opposite pole,
the 3 nent and completion of himself. He was mature
If Docuiy and mentally, fit to enter the arena of life

ASRA 15

and fight his way. What prevented him from doing so?
His education^ which had taught him nothing useful; his
social position, which stood between him and a trade he
might have learned. The Church, which had not yet re-
ceived his vow of loyalty to her priests; the State, which
was still waiting for his oath of allegiance to Bemadotte
and Nassau; the School, which had not yet trained him
sufficiently to consider him ripe for the University; the
secret alliance of the upper against the lower classes. A
whole moimtain of follies lay on him and his young strength.
Now that he knew himself to be a man, the whole system
of education seemed to him an institution for the mutila-
tion of body and soul. They must both be mutilated be-
fore he could be allowed to enter the harem of the world,
where manhood is considered a danger; he could find no
other excuse for it. And thus he sank back into his former
state of immaturity. He compared himself to a celery
plant, tied up and put under a flower-pot so as to make
it as white and soft as possible, unable to put forth green
leaves in the simshine, flower, and bear seed.

Wrapped in these thoughts he remained in the garden
until Ae clock on the nearest church tower strudk ten.
Then he turned towards the house, for it was bed-time.
But the front door was locked. The house-maid, a petti-
coat thrown over her nightgown, let him in. A glimpse of
her bare shoulders roused him from his sentimental reveries;
he tried to put his arm round her and kiss her, for at
the moment he was conscious of nothing but her sex.
But the maid had already disappeared, shutting the door
with a bang. Overwhelmed with shame he opened his
window, cooled his head in a basin of cold water and
lighted his lamp.

When he had got into bed, he took up a volume of
Amdt's Spiritual Voices of the Morning, a book which
had belonged to his mother; he read a chapter of it every
evening to be on the safe side, for in the morning his time
was short. The book reminded him of the promise of
chastity given to his mother on her death-bed, and he felt
a twinge of conscience. A fly which had singed its wings
on his lamp, and was now buzzing round the little table

i6 ASRA

by his bedside, turned his thoughts into another channel;
he dosed the book and lit a cigarette. He heard his
father take off his boots in the room below, knock out
his pipe against the stove, pour out a glass of water and
get ready to go to bed. He thought how lonely he must
be since he had become a widower. In da5rs gone by he
had often heard the subdued voices of his parents through
the thin partition, in intimate conversation on matters
on which they always agreed; but now no voice was audi-
ble, nothing but the dead sounds which a man makes in
waiting upon himself, sounds which one must put side
by side, like the figures in a rebus, before one can under*
stand their meaning.

He fijiished his cigarette, blew out the lamp and said
the Lord's Prayer in an undertone, but he got no farther
than the fifth petition. Then he fell asleep.

He awoke from a dream in the middle of the night. He
had dreamt that he held the gardener's daughter in his
arms. He could not remember the circumstances, for he
was quite dazed, and fell asleep again directly.

On the following morning he was depres^ and had
a headache. He brooded over the future which loomed
before him threateningly and filled him with dread. He
realised with a pang how quickly the smnmer was pass-
ing, for the end of the summer meant the degradation
of school-life. Every thought of his own would be stifled
by the thoughts of others; there was no advantage in be-
ing able to titiink independently; it required a fixed number
of years before one could reach one's goal. It was like a
journey on a good's train; the engine was bound to remain
for a certain time in the stations, and when the pressure
of the §team became too strong, from want of consiunp-
tion of energy, a waste-pipe had to be opened. The Board
had drawn up the time-table and the train was not per-
mitted to arrive at the stations before its appointed time.
That was the principal thing which mattered.

The father noticed the boy's pallor, but he put it down
to grief over his mother's death.

Autumn came and with it the return to school. Theo-

ASRA 17

dore, by dint of much novel-reading during the summer,
and coming in this way, as it were, in constant contact
with grown-up people and their problems and struggles,
had come to look upon himself as a grown-up member
of society. Now the masters treated him with familiarity,
the boys took liberties which compelled him to repay them
in kind. And this educational institution, which was to
ennoble him and make him fit to take his place in the
community, what did it teach him? How did it ennoble
him? The compendiums, one and all, were written under
the control of the upper classes, for the sole purpose of
forcing the lower classes to look up to their betters. The
schoolmasters frequently reproached their pupils with in-
gratitude and impressed on them their utter inability to
realise, even faintly, the advantage they enjoyed in receiv-
ing an education which so many of their poorer fellow-
creatures would always lack. No, indeed, the boys were
not sophisticated enough to see through the gigantic fraud
and its advantages.

But did they ever find true joy, real pleasure in the
subjects of their studies for their own sakes? Never ! There-
fore the teachers had to appeal incessantly to the lower
passions of their pupils, to ambition, self-interest, material
advantages.

What a miserable make-believe school was ! Not one
of the boys believed that he would reap any benefit from
repeating the names and dates of hated kings in their
proper sequence, from learning dead languages, proving
axioms, defining "a matter of course," and counting the
anthers of plants and the joints on the hindlegs of insects,
to know in the end no more about them than their Latin
names. How many long hours were wasted in the vain
attempt to divide an angle into three equal sections, a
thing which can be done so easily in a minute in an
unscientific (that is to say practical) way by using a
graduator.

How they scorned everything practical! His sisters,
who were taught French from OUendorf's grammar, were
able to speak the language after two years' study; but
the college boys could not say a single sentence after

i8 ASRA

six. Ollendorf was a name which they pronounced with
pity and contempt. It was the essence of all that was
stupid.

But when his sister asked for an explanation and en-
quired whether the purpose of spoken language was not
the expression of human thought, the young sophist replied
with a phrase picked up from one of the masters who
in his turn had borrowed it from Talleyrand. Language
was invented to hide one's thoughts. This, of course,
was beyond the horizon of a yoimg girl (how well men
know how to hide their shortcomings), but henceforth she
believed her brother to be tremendously learned, and
stopped arguing with him.

And was there not even a worse stimibling-block in
aesthetics, delusive and deceptive, casting a v^ of bor-
rowed splendour and sham beauty over everything? They
sang of "The Knights' Vigil of Light." What knights'
vigil? With patents of nobility and students' certificates;
false testimonials, as they might have told themselves. Of
light? That was to say of the upper classes who had
the greatest interest in keeping the lower classes in dark-
ness, a task in which they were ably assisted by chiurch
and school. "And onward, onward, on the path of
light!"

Things were always called by the wrong name. And
if it so happened that a light-bearer arose from the lower
classes, everybody was ready and prepared to extinguish
his torch. Oh! youthful, healthy host of fighters! How
healthy they were, all these young men, enervated by idle-
ness, xmsatisfied desires and ambitions, who scorned every
man who had not the means to pay for a University educa-
tion!/ What splendid liars they were, the poets of the
upper classes! Were they the deceivers or the deceived?

What was the usual subject of the young men's conversa-
tion? Their studies? Never! Once in a way, perhaps,
they would talk of certificates. No, their conversation was
of things obscene; of appointments with women; of bil-
liards and drink; of certain diseases which they had heard
discussed by their elder brothers. They lounged about in
the afternoon and "held the reviews," and the best informed

ASRA 19

of them knew the name of the officer and could tell the
others where his mistress lived.

Once two members of the "Knights' Vigil of Light," had
dined in the company of two women on the terrace of
a high-class restaurant in the Zoological Gardens. For
this offence they were expelled from school. They were
punished for their naivete, not because their conduct was
considered vicious, for a year after they passed their exami-
nations and went to the University, gaining in this way
a whole year; and when they had completed their studies
at Upsala, they were attached to the Embassy in one of
the capitals of Europe, to represent the United Kingdoms
of Sweden and Norway.

In these surroundings Theodore spent the best part of
his youth. He had seen through the fraud, but was com-
pelled to acquiesce! Again and again he asked himself
the question: What can I do? There was no answer. And
so he became an accessory and learned to hold his tongue.

His confirmation appeared to him to be very mudh on
a level with his school experience. A yoimg minister, an
ardent pietist, was to teach him in four months Luther's
Catechism, regardless of the fact that he was well versed
in theology, exegesis and dogmatics, besides having read the
New Testament in Greek. Nevertheless the strict pietism,
which demanded absolute truth in thought and action, could
not fail to make a great impression on him.

When the catechumens were assembled for the first
time, Theodore found himself quite unexpectedly sur-
roimded by a totally different class of boys to whom he
had been used at school. When he entered the assembly-
room he was met by the stare of something like a him-
dred inimical eyes. There were tobacco binders, chimney
sweeps, apprentices of all trades. They were on iDad terms
and freely abused one another, but this enmity between the
different trades was only superficial; however much they
quarrelled, they yet held together. He seemed to breathe
a strangely stifling atmosphere; the hatred with which
they greeted him was not unmixed with contempt, the re-
verse of a certain respect or envy. He looked in vain
for a friend, for a companion, like-minded, dressed as he

20 ASRA

was. There was not a single one. The parish was poor,
the rich people sent their children to the German church
which was then the fashion. It was in the company of
the children of the people, the lower classes, that he was
to approach the altar, as their equal. He asked himself
what it was that separated him from these boys? Were
they not, bodily, endowed with the same gifts as he? No
doubt, for every one of them earned his living, and some
of them helped to keep their parents. Were they less
gifted, mentally? He did not think so, for their remarks
gave evidence of keen powers of observation; he would
have laughed at many of their witty remarks if he had
not been conscious of his superior caste. There was no
definite line of demarcation between him and the fools who
were his school-fellows. But there was a line here. Was
it the shabby clothes, the plain faces, the coarse hands,
which formed the barrier? Partly, he thought. Their
plainness, especially, repulsed him. But were they worse
than others because they were plain?

He was carrying a foil, as he had a fencing lesson later
on. He put it in a comer of the room, hoping that it
would escape attention. But it had been seen already. No-
body knew what kind of a thing it really was, but every-
body recognised it as a weapon of some sort. Some of
the boldest busied themselves about the comer, so as to
have a look at it. They fingered the covering of the
handle, scratched the guard with their nails, bent the blade,
handled the small leather ball. They were like hares sniffing
at a gun which had been lost in the wood. They did not
understand its use, but they knew it for something inimical,
something with a hidden meaning. Presently a belt-
maker's apprentice, whose brother was in the Life Guards,
joined the inquisitive throng and at once decided the ques-
tion: "Can't you see that it is a sword, you fools?" he
shouted, with a look at Theodore. It was a respectful look,
but a look which also hinted at a secret understanding
between them, which, correctly interpreted, meant: You
and I imderstand these things! But a young rope-maker,
who had once been a trumpeter in a military band, con-
sidered this giving of a verdict without consulting him a

ASRA 21

personal slight and declared that he ^^would be hanged if
it wasn't a rapier!" The consequence was a fight which
transformed the place into a bear-garden, dense with dust
and re-echoing with screams and yells.

The door opened and the minister stood on the threshold.
He was a pale young man, very thin, with watery blue
eyes and a face disfigured by a rash. He shouted at the
boys. The wild beasts ceased fighting. He began talking
of the precious blood of Christ and the power of the Evil
One over the human heart. After a little while he suc-
ceeded in inducing the hundred boys to sit down on the
forms and chairs. But now he was quite out of breath
and the atmosphere was thick with dust. He glanced at
the window and said in a faint voice: "Open 3ie sash!"
This request re-awakened the only half-subdued passions.
Twenty-five boys made a rush for the window and tried
to seize the window cord.

"Go to your places at once!" screamed the minister,
stretching out his hand for his cane.

There was a momentary silence during which the min-
ister tried to think of a way of having the sash raised
without a fight.

"You," he said at last to a timid little fellow, "go and
open the window!"

T];>e small boy went to the window and tried to dis-
entangle the window cord. The others looked on in breath-
less silence, when suddenly a big lad, in sailor's clothes,
who had just come home on the brig Carl Johan, lost
patience.

"The devil take me if I don't show you what a lad
can do," he shouted, throwing off his coat and jumping
on the window sill; there was a flash from his cudass
and the rope was cut.

"Cable's cut!" he laughed, as the minister with a hys-
terical cry, literally drove him to his seat.

"The rope was so entangled that there was nothing for
it but to cut it," he assured him, as he sat down.

The minister was furious. He had come from a small
town in the provinces and had never conceived the pos-
sibility of so much sin, so much wickedness and unmoraUty.

22 ASRA

He had never come into contact with lads so far advanced
on the road to damnation. And he talked at great length
of the precious blood of Christ.

Not one of them imderstood what he said, for they
did not realise that they had fallen, since they had never
been different. The boys received his words with cold-
ness and indifference.

The minister rambled on and spoke of Christ's precious
woimds, but not one of them took his words to heart,
for not one of them, was conscious of having woimded
Christ. He changed the subject and spoke of the devil,
but that was a topic so familiar to them that it made no
impression. At last he hit on the right thing. He began
to talk of their confirmation which was to take place in
the coming spring. He reminded them of their parents,
anxious that their children should play a part in the life
of the community; when he went on to speak of employers
who refused to employ lads who had not been confirmed,
his listeners became deeply interested at once, and every
one of them imderstood the great importance of the com-
ing ceremony. Now he was sincere, and the yoimg minds
grasped what he was talking about; the noisiest among
them became quiet.

The registration began. What a number of marriage
certificates were missing! How could the children come
to Christ when their parents had not been legally' mar-
ried? How could they approach the altar when their
fathers had been in prison? Oh! what sinners they
were!

Theodore was deeply moved by the exhibition of so
much shame and disgrace. He longed to tear his thoughts
away from the subject, but was xmable to do so. Now
it was his tiun to hand in his certificates and the min-
ister read out: son: Theodore, bom on such and such
a date; parents: professor and knight ... a faint smile
flickered like a feeble sunbeam over his face, he gave him
a friendly nod and asked: "And how is your dear father?"
But when he saw that the mother was dead (a fact of
which he was perfectly well aware) his face clouded over.
"She was a child of God," he said, as if he were talking

ASRA 23

to himself, in a gushing, sympathetic; whining voice, but
the remark conveyed at the same time a certain reproach
against the "dear father," who was only a professor and
knight. After that Theodore could go.

When he left the assembly-room he felt that he had
gone through an almost impossible experience. Were all
those lads really depraved because they used oaths and
coarse language, as his companions, his father, his imcle,
and all the upper classes did at times? What did the
minister mean when he talked of immorality? They were
more savage than the spoilt children of the wealthy, but
that was because they were more fully alive. It was unfair
to blame them for missing marriage certificates. True,
his father had never committed a theft, but there was no
necessity for a man to steal if he had an income of six
thousand crowns and could please himself. The act would
be absurd or abnormal in such a case.

Theodore went back to school realising what it meant
"to have received an education"; here nobody was badgered
for small faults. As little notice as possible was taken
of one's own or one's parent's weaknesses, one was among
equals and imderstood one another.

After school one "held the reviews," sneaked into a
cafe and drank a liqueur, and finally went to the fencing-
room. He looked at the young officers who treated him
as their equal, observed all those young bloods with their
supple limbs, pleasant manners and smiling faces, every
one of them certain that a good dinner was awaiting him
at home, and became conscious of the existence of two
worlds: an upper and an under- world. He remembered
the gloomy assembly-room and the wretched assembly he
had just left with a pang; all their wounds and hidden
defects were mercilessly exposed and examined through a
magnifying-glass, so that the lower classes might acquire
that true humility failing which the upper classes cannot
enjoy their amiable weaknesses in peace. And for the
first time something jarring had come into this life.

However much Theodore was tossed about between his
natural yearning for the only half-realised temptations
of the world, and his newly formed desire to turn his

24 ASRA

back on this world and his mind heavenwards, he did not
break the promise given to his mother. The religious
teaching which he and the other catechumens received from
the minister in the church, did not fail to impress him
deeply. He was often gloomy and wrapped in thought
and felt that life was not what it ought to be. He had
a dim notion that once upon a time a terrible crime had
been committed, which it was now everybody's business
to hide by practising countless deceptions; he compared
himself to a fly caught in a spider's web: the more it strug-
gled to regain its freedom, the more it entangled itself,
xmtil at last it died miserably, strangled by the cruel
threads.

One evening — the minister scorned no trick likely to
produce an effect on his hard-headed pupils — they were
having a lesson in the choir. It was in January. Two
gas jets lighted up the choir, illuminating and distorting
the marble figures on the altar. The whole of the large
church with its two barrel-vaults, which crossed one an-
other, lay in semi-darkness. In the backgroimd the shin-
ing organ pipes faintly reflected the gas flames; above it
the angels blowing their trumpets to summon the sleepers
before the judgment seat of their maker, looked merely
like sinister, ^eatening human figures above life size;
the cloisters were lost in complete darkness.

The minister had explained the seventh commandment.
He had spoken of immorality between married and un-
married people. He could not explain to his pupils what
immorality between husband and wife meant, although
he was a married man himself; but on the subject of im-
morality in all its other aspects he was well-informed. He
went onJ^o the subject of self-abuse. As he pronounced
the word a rustling sound passed through the rows of
young men; they stared at him, with white cheeks and
hollow eyes, as if a phantom had appeared in their midst.
As long as he kept to the tortures of hell fire, they re-
mained fairly indifferent, but when he took up a book
and read to them accounts of youths who had died at
the age of twenty-five of consumption of the spine, they
collapsed in their seats, and felt as if the floor were giving

ASRA 25

way beneath them! He told them the story of a young
boy who was committed to an asylum at the age of twelve,
and died at the age of foiu'teen, having found peace in
the faith of his Redeemer. They saw before their shrink*
ing eyes a hundred corpses, washed and shrouded. "There
is but one remedy against this evil," went on the minister,
"the precious wounds of Christ." But how this remedy
was to be used against sexual precocity, he did not tell
them. He admonished them not to go to dances, to shun
theatres and gaming-houses, and abo'^e all things, to avoid
women; that is to say to act in exact contradiction to theic
inclinations. That tins vice contradicts and utterly con-
founds the pronouncement of the community that a man
is not mature until he is twenty-one, was passed over
in silence. Whether it could be prevented by early mar-
riages (supposing a means of providing food for all in-
stead of banquets for a few could be found) remained an
open question. The final issue was that one should throw
oneself into the arms of Christ, that is to say, go to
church, and leave the care of temporal things to the upper
classes.

After this admonishment the minister requested the first
five on the first form to stay behind. He wished to speak
to them in private. The first five looked as if they had
been sentenced to death. Their chests contracted; they
breathed with difficulty, and a careful observer migh^
have noticed that their hair had risen an inch at the roots
and lay over their skulls in damp strands like the hair of
a corpse. Their eyes stared from their blanched sockets
like two round glass bullets set in leather, motionless, not
knowing whether to face the question with a bold front, or
hide behind an impudent lie.

After the prayer the hymn of Christ's wounds was sung;
to-night it sounded like the singing of consumptives; every
now and then it died away altogether, or was interrupted
by a dry cough, like the cough of a man who is dying of
thirst. Then they began to file out. One of the five
attempted to steal away, but the minister called him
back.

It was a terrible moment. Theodore who sat on the first

26 ASRA

form was one of the five. He felt sick at heart. Not be-
cause he was guilty of the offence indicated, but because
in his heart he considered it an insult to a man thus to
have to lay bare the most secret places of his soul.

The other four sat down, as far from each other as
they could. The belt-maker's apprentice, who was one of
them, tried to make a joke, but the words refused to come.
They saw themselves confronted by the police-court, the
prison, the hospital and, in the backgroimd^ the asylum.
They did not know what was going to happen, but they
felt instinctively that a species of scourging awaited them.
Their only comfort in their distressing situation was the
fact that he, Mr. Theodore, was one of them. It was not
clear to them why that fact should be a comfort, but they
knew intuitively that no evil would happen to the son of
a professor.

"Come along, Wennerstroem," said the minister, after
he had lighted the gas in the vestry.

Wennerstroem went and the door closed behind him.
The four remained seated on their forms, vainly trying
to discover a comfortable position for their limbs.

After a while Wennerstroem returned, with red eyes,
trembling with excitement; he inunediately went down
the corridor and out into the night. •

When he stood in the churchyard which lay silent under
a heavy cover of snow, he recapitulated all that had hap-
pened in the vestry. The minister had asked him whether
he had sinned? No, he had not. Did he have dreams?
Yes! He was told that dreams were equally sinful, be-
cause they proved that the heart was wicked, and God
looked at the heart. "He trieth the heart and reins, and
on the last day he will judge every one of us for every
sinful thought, and dreams are thoughts. Christ has said:
Give me your heart, my son! Go to Him! J^ray, pray,
pray! Whatsoever is diaste, whatsoever is pure, whatso-
ever is lovely — that is He. The alpha and the omega, life
and happiness. Chasten the flesh and be strong in prayer.
Go in the name of the Lord and sin no more!"

He felt indignant, but he was also crushed. In vain
did he struggle to throw off his depression, he had not

ASRA V

been taught sufficient common-sense at school to use it
as a weapon against this Jesuitical sophistry. It was true,
his knowledge of psychology enabled him to modify the
statement that dreams are thoughts; dreams are fancies,
he mused, creations of the imagination; but God has no
regard for words I Logic taught him that there was some-
thing unnatural in his premature desires. He could not
marry at the age of sixteen, since he was unable to sup-
port a wife; but why he was unable to support a wife,
although he felt himself to be a man, was a problem which
he could not solve. However anxious he might be to get
married, the laws of society which are made by the upper
classes and protected by bayonets, would prevent him.
Consequently nature must have been sinned against in
some way, for a man was mature long before he was able
to earn a living. It must be degeneracy. His imagination
must be degenerate; it was for him to purify it by prayer
and sacrifice.

When he arrived home, he found his father and sisters
at supper. He was ashamed to sit down with them, for
he felt degraded. His father asked him, as usual, whether
the date of the confirmation had been fixed. Theodore did
not know. He touched no food, pretending that he was
not well; the truth was that he did not dare to eat any
supper. He went into his bedroom and read an essay by
Sdiartau which the minister had lent him. The subject
was the vanity of reason. And here, just here, where all
his hopes of arriving at a clear understanding were centred,
the light failed. Reason which he had dared to hope would
some day guide him out of the darkness into the light,
reason, too, was sin; the greatest of all sins, for it ques-
tioned God's very existence, tried to understand what was
not meant to be understood. Why it was not meant to be
understood, was not explained; probably it was because
if it had been imderstood the fraud would have been
discovered.

He rebelled no longer, but surrendered himself. Before
going to bed he read two Morning Voices from Amdt, re-
cited the Creed, the Lord's Prayer and the Blessing. He
felt very hungry; a fact which he realised with a certain

28 ASRA

spiteful pleasure, for it seemed to him that his enemy was
suffering.

With these thoughts he fell asleep. He awoke in the
middle of the night. He had dreamt of a champagne sup-
per in the company of a girl. And the whole terrible
evening arose fresh in his memory.

He leapt out of bed with a boimd, threw his sheets
and blankets on the floor and lay down to sleep on the
bare mattress, covering himself with nothing but a thin
coverlet. He was cold and hungry, but he must subdue
the devil. Again he repeated the Lord's Prayer, with addi-
tions of his own. By and by his thoughts grew confused,
the strained expression of his features relaxed, a smile soft-
ened the expression of his mouth; lovely figures appeared
before him, serene and smiling, he heard subdued voices,
half-stifled laughter, a few bars from a waltz, saw sparkling
glasses and frank and merry faces with candid eyes, which
met his own imabashed; suddenly a curtain was parted
in the middle; a charming little face peeped through the
red silk draperies, with smiling lips and dancing eyes; the
slender throat is bare, the beautiful sloping shoulders look
as if they had been modelled by a caressing hand; she
holds out her arms and he draws her to his thumping
heart.

The clock was striking three. Again he had been worsted
in the fight. Determined to win, he picked up the mat-
tress and threw it out of the bed. Then he knelt on the
cold floor and fervently prayed to God for strength, for he
felt that he was indeed wrestling with the devil. When he
had finished his prayer he lay down on the bare frame,
and with a feeling of satisfaction felt the ropes and belting
cutting into his arms and shins.

He awoke in the morning in a high fever.

He was laid up for six weeks. When he arose from
his bed of sickness, he felt better than he had ever felt
before. The rest, the good food and the medicine had
increased his strength, and the struggle was now twice as
hard. But he continued to struggle.

His confirmation took place in the spring. The moving
scene in which the lower classes promise on oath never

ASRA 29

to interfere with those things which the upper classes
consider ttieir privilege, made a lasting impression on him.
It didn't trouble him that the minister offered him wine
bought from the wine-merchant Hogstedt at sixty-five ore
the pint, and wafers from Lettstroem, the baker, at one
crown a pound, as the flesh and blood of the great agitator
Jesus of Nazareth, who was done to death nineteen hun-
dred years ago. He didn't think about it, for one didn't
think in those days, one had emotions.

A year after his confirmation he passed his final exami*
nation. The smart little college cap was a source of great
pleasure to him; without being actually conscious of it, he
felt that he, as a member of the upper classes, had re-
ceived a charter. They were not a little proud of their
knowledge, too, these young men, for the masters had
pronounced them "mature." The conceited youths! If at
least they had mastered all the nonsense of which they
boasted! If anybody had listened to their conversation
at the banquet given in their honour, it would have been
a revelation to him. They declared openly that they had
not acquired five per cent, of the knowledge which ought
to have been in their possession; they assured everybody
who had ears to listen that it was a miracle that they
had passed; the uninitiated would not have believed a word
of it. And some of the young masters, now that the bar-
rier between pupil and teacher was removed, and simulation
was no longer necessary, swore solemnly, with half-intoxi-
cated gestures, that there was not a single master in the
whole school who would not have been plucked. A sober
person could not help drawing the conclusion that the ex-
amination was like a line which could be drawn at will
between upper and lower classes; and then he saw in the
miracle nothing but a gigantic fraud.

It was one of the masters who, sipping a glass of punch,
maintained that only an idiot could imagine that a human
brain could remember at the same time: the three thou-
sand dates mentioned in history; the names of the five
thousand towns situated in all parts of the world; the
names of six himdred plants and seven himdred animals;
the bones in the human body, the stones which form the

30 ASRA

crust of the earth, all theological disputes, one tbousai
French words, one thousand English, one thousand Ge
man, one thousand Latin, one thousand Greek, half a mi
lion rules and exceptions to the rules: five hundred math
matical, physical, geometrical, chemical formulas. He w;
willing to prove that in order to be capable of such
feat the brain would have to be as large as the cupola of tl
Observatory at Upsala. Hiunboldt, he went on to sa
finally forgot his tables, and the professor of astronoir
at Lund had been unable to divide two whole numbe
of six figures each. The newly-fledged under-graduat
imagined that they knew six languages, and yet they kne
no more than five thousand words at most of the tweni
thousand which composed their mother tongue. And hadn
he seen how they cheated? Oh! he knew all their trick!
He had seen the dates written on their finger nails; 1
had watched them consulting books under cover of the
desks, he had heard them whispering to one another! Bu
he concluded, what is one to do? Unless one closes z
eye to these things, the supply of students is boimd i
come to an end.

During the summer Theodore remained at home, spen<
ing much of his time in the garden. He brooded over tl
problem of his future; what profession was he to choos<
He had gained so much insight into the methods of tl
huge Jesuitical community which, under the name of tl
upper classes, constituted society, that he felt dissatisfic
with the world and decided to enter the Church to sai
himself from despair. And yet the world beckoned i
him. It lay before him, fair and bright, and his youn
fermenting blood yearned for life. He spent himself i
the struggle and his idleness added to his torments.

Theodore's increasing melancholy and waning health b
gan to alarm his father. He had no doubt about the cau
but he could not bring himself to talk to his son on sue
a delicate subject.

One Sunday afternoon the Professor's brother who wj
an officer in the Pioneers, called. They were sitting in tl
garden, sipping their coffee.

ASRA 31

"Have you noticed the change m Theodore?" asked the
^ Professor.
'" "Yes, his time has come," answered the Captain.

"I believe it has come long ago."
^ "I wish you'd talk to him, I can't do it."
^ "If I were a bachelor, I should play the part of the
^ uncle," said the Captain; "as it is, I'll ask Gustav to do
' it. The boy must see something of life, or hell go wrong.
; Hot stuff these Wennerstroems, what?"

"Yes," said the Professor, "I was a man at fifteen, but
I had a school-friend who was never confirmed because he
was a father at thirteen."

"Look at Gustav I Isn't he a fine fellow? I'm hanged
if he isn't as broad across .the back as an old captain!
He's a handful!"

"Yes," answered the Professor, "he costs me a lot, but
after all, I'd rather pay than see the boy running any risks.
I wish you'd ask Gustav to take Theodore about with him
a little, just to rouse him."

"Oh! with pleasure!" answered the Captain.

And so the matter was settled.

One evening in July, when the summer is in its prime
and all the blossoms which the spring has fertilised ripen
into fruit, Theodore was sitting in his bed-room, waiting.
He had pinned a text against his wall. "Come to Jesus,"
it said, and it was intended as a hint to the lieutenant
not to argue with him when he occasionally came home
from barracks for a few minutes. Gustav was of a lively
disposition, "a handful,'^ as his uncle had said. He wasted
no time in brooding. He had promised to call for Theo-
dore at seven o'clock; they were going to make arrange-
ments for the celebration of the professor's birthday. Theo-
dore's secret plan was to convert his brother, and Gus-
tav's equally secret intention was to make his younger
brother take a more reasonable view of life.

Punctually at seven o'clock, a cab stopped before the
house, (the lieutenant invariably arrived in a cab) and im-
mediately after Theodore heard the ringing of his spurs
and the rattling of his sword on the stairs.

"Good evening, you old mole," said the elder brother

32 ASRA

with a laugh. He was the picture of health and youth.
His highly-polished Hessian boots revealed a pair of fine
legs, his tunic outlined the loins of a cart-horse; the golden
bandolier of his cartridge box made his chest appear broader
and his sword-belt showed off a pair of enormous thighs.

He glanced at the text and grinned, but said nothing.

"Come along, old man, let's be off to Bellevuel Well
call on the gardener there and make arrangements for
the old man's birthday. Put on your hat, and come, old
chapl"

Theodore tried to think of an excuse, but the brother
took him by the arm, put a hat on his head, back to front,
pushed a cigarette between his lips and opened the door.
Theodore felt like a fish out of water, but he went with his
brother.

"To Bellevuel" said the lieutenant to the cab-driver,
"and mind you make your thoroughbreds fly!"

Theodore could not help being amused. It would never
have occurred to him to address an elderly married man,
like the cabman, with so much familiarity.

On the way the lieutenant talked of everything under
the sun and stared at every pretty girl they passed.

They met a funeral procession on its return from the
cemetery.

"Did you notice that devilish pretty girl in the last
coach?" asked Gustav.

Theodore had not seen her and did not want to see
her.

They passed an omnibus full of girls of the barmaid type.
The lieutenant stood up, imconcernedly, in the public thor-
oughfare, and kissed his hands to them. He really be-
haved like a madman.

The business at Rellevue was soon settled. On their
return the cab-driver drove them, without waiting for an
order, to "The Equerry," a restaurant where Gustav was
evidently well-known.

"Let's go and have something to eat," said the lieutenant,
pushing his brother out of the cab.

Theodore was fascinated. He was no abstainer and saw
nothing wrong in entering a public-house, although it never

ASRA 33

occurred to him to do so. He followed, though not with-
out a slight feeling of imeasiness.

They were received in the hall by two girls. "Good eve-
ning, little doves/' said the lieutenant, and kissed them both
on the lips. "Let me introduce you to my learned brother;
he's very yoimg and innocent, not at all like me; what
do you say, Jossa?"

The girls looked shyly at Theodore, who did not know
which way to turn. His brother's language appeared to
him unutterably impudent.

On their way upstairs they met a dark-haired little girl,
who had evidently been crying; she looked quiet and mod-
est and made a good impression on Theodore.

The lieutenant did not kiss her, but he pulled out his
handkerchief and dried her eyes. Then he ordered an
extravagant supper.

They were in a bright and pretty room, hung with mir-
/ors and containing a piano, a perfect room for banquetting.
The lieutenant opened the piano with his sword, and
before Theodore knew where he was, he was sitting on
the music-stool, and his hands were resting on the
keyboard.

"Play us a waltz," commanded the lieutenant, and Theo-
dore played a waltz. The lieutenant took off his sword
and danced with Jossa; Theodore heard his spurs knocks*
ing against the legs of the chairs and tables. Then he
threw himself on the sofa and shouted:

"Come here, ye slaves, and fan me!"

Theodore began to play softly and presently he was
absorbed in the music of Goimod's Faust. He did not dare
to turn round.

"Go and kiss him," whispered the brother.

But the girls felt shy. They were almost afraid of
him and his melancholy music.

The boldest of them, however, went up to the piano.

"You are playing from the Freischutz, aren't you?" she
asked.

•

"No,** said Theodore, politely, "I'm playing Gounod's
"Your brother looks frightfully respectable," said the lit-

34 ASRA

tie dark one, whose name was Rieke; "he's different to you,
you old villain."

"Oh! well, he's going into the Church," whispered the
lieutenant.

These words made a great impression on the girls, and
henceforth they only kissed the lieutenant when Theodore's
back was turned, and looked at Theodore shyly and ap-
prehensively, like fowls at a chained mastiff.

Supper appeared, a great number of courses. There were
eighteen dishes, not counting the hot ones.

Gustav poured out the liqueurs.

"Your health, you old hypocrite 1" he laughed.

Theodore swallowed the liqueur. A delicious warmth ran
through his limbs, a thin, warm veil fell over his eyes,
he felt ravenous like a starving beast. What a banquet
it was! The fresh salmon with its peculiar flavour, and
the dill with its narcotic aroma; the radishes which seem
to scrape the throat and call for beer; the small beef-
steaks and sweet Portuguese onions, which made him think
of dancing girls; the fried lobster which smelt of the sea;
the chicken stuffed with parsley which reminded him of
the gardener, and the first gerkins with their poisonous
flavour of verdigris which made such a jolly, crackling
sound between his crunching teeth. The porter flowed
through his veins like hot streams of lava; they drank
champagne after the strawberries; a waitress brought the
foaming drink which bubbled in the glasses like a foimtain.
They poured out a glass for her. And then they talked
of all sorts of things.

Theodore sat there like a tree in which the sap is rising.
He had eaten a good supper and felt as if a whole vol-
cano was seething in his inside. New thoughts, new emo-
tions, new ideas, new points of view fluttered round his
brow like butterflies. He went to the piano and played,
he himself knew not what. The ivory ke3rs under his hands
were like a heap of bones from which his spirit drew life
and melody.

He did not know how long he had been playing, but
when he turned round he saw his brother entering the room.
He looked like a god, radiating life and strengtib. Behind

ASRA 35

him came Rieke with a bowl of punch, and immediately
after all the girls came upstairs. The lieutenant drank
to each one of them separately; Theodore found that every-
thing was as it should be and finally became so bold that
he kissed Rieke on the shoulder. But she looked annoyed
and drew away from him, and he felt ashamed.

When Theodore found himself alone in his room, he
had a feeling as if the whole world were turned upside
down. He tore the text from the wall, not because he
no longer believed in Jesus, but because its being pinned
against the wall struck him as a species of bragging. He
was amazed to find that religion sat on him as loosely as
a Sunday suit, and he asked himself whether it was not
unseemly to go about during the whole week in Sunday
clothes. After all he was but an ordinary, commonplace
person with whom he was well content, and he came to
the conclusion that he had a better chance of living in
peace with himself if he lived a simple, impretentious, un-
assuming life.

He slept soundly during the night, undisturbed by
dreams.

When he arose on the following morning, his pale cheeks
looked fuller and there was a new gladness in his heart.
He went out for a walk and suddenly found himself in
the country. The thought struck him that he might go to
the restaurant and look up the girls.

He went into the large room; there he found Rieke
and Jossa alone, in morning dresses, snubbing gooseberries.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was sitting at the
table beside them with a pair of scissors in his hand,
helping them. They talked of Theodore's brother and the
pleasant evening they had spent together. Not a single
loose remark was made. They were just like a happy fam-
ily; surely he had fallen in good hands, he was among
friends.

When they had finished with the gooseberries, he or-
dered coffee and invited the girls to share it with him.
Later on the proprietress came and read the paper to them.
He felt at home.

He repeated his visit. One afternoon he went upstairs,

36 ASRA

to look for Rieke. She was sewing a seam. Theodore
asked her whether he was in her way. "Not at all," she
replied, "on the contrary," They talked of his brother
who was away at camp, and would be away for another
two months. Presently he ordered some pimch and their
intimacy grew.

On another occasion Theodore met her in the Park.
She was gathering flowers. They both sat down in the
grass. She was wearing a light summer dress, the mate-
rial of which was so thin that it plainly revealed her
slight girlish figure. He put his arms round her waist
and kissed her. She returned his kisses and he drew her to
him in a passionate embrace; but she tore herself away
and told him gravely that if he did not behave himself she
would never meet him again.

They went on meeting one another for two months.
Theodore had fallen in love with her. He had long and
serious conversations with her on the most sacred duties
of life, on love, on religion, on everything, and between-
whiles he spoke to her of his passion. But she invariably
confound^ him with his own arguments. Then he felt
ashamed of having harboured base thoughts of so inno-
cent a girl, and fuially his passion was transformed into
admiration for this poor little thing, who had managed to
keep herself unspotted in the midst of temptation.

He had given up the idea of going into the Church;
he determined to take the doctor's degree and — ^who knows
— ^perhaps marry Rieke. He read poetry to her while she
did needlework. She let him kiss her as much as he liked,
she allowed him to fondle and caress her; but that was
the limit.

At last his brother returned from camp. He imme-
diately ordered a banquet at "The Equerry"; Theodore
was invited. But he was made to play all the time. He
was in the middle of a waltz, to which nobody danced,
when he happened to look round; he was alone. He rose
and went into the corridor, passed a long row of doors,
and at last came to a bed-room. There he saw a sight which
made him turn round, seize his hat and disappear into
the darkness.

ASRA Z7

It was dawn when he reached his own bed-room, alone,
annihilated, robbed of his faith in life, in love, and, of
course, in women, for to him there was but one woman
in the world, and that was Rieke from "The Equerry."

On the fifteenth of September he went to Upsda to study
theology.

• • • • •

The years passed. His sound common-sense was slowly
extinguished by all the nonsense with which he had to fiU
his brain daily and hourly. But at night he was power-
less to resist. Nature burst her bonds and took by force
what rebellious man denied her. He lost his health; all
his skull bones were visible in his haggard face, his com-
plexion was sallow and his skin looked damp and dammy;
ugly pimples appeared between the scanty locks of his
beard. His eyes were without lustre, his hands so emaciated
that the joints seemed to poke through the skin. He
looked like the illustration to an essay on human vice,
and yet he lived a perfectly pure life.

One day the professor of Christian Ethics, a married
man with very strict ideas on morality, called on him and
asked him pointblank whether he had anything on his con-
science; if so, he advised him to make a clean breast of
it. Theodore answered that he had nothing to confess,
but that he was imhappy. Thereupon the professor ex-
horted him to watch and pray and be strong.

His brother had written him a long letter, begging him
not to take a certain stupid matter too much to heart. He
told him that it was absurd to take a girl seriously. His phi-
losophy, and he had always found it answering admirably,
was to pay debts incurred and go; to play while one was
young, for the gravity of life made itself felt quite soon
enou^. Marriage was nothing but a civil institution for the
protection of the children. There was plenty of time for it.

Theodore replied at some length in a letter imbued with
true Christian sentiment, whidi the lieutenant left im-
answered.

After passing his first examination in the spring, Theo-
dore was obliged to spend a summer at Skofde, in order to

38 ASRA

undergo the cold water cure. In the autunm he returned
to Upsala. His newly-regained strength was merely so
much fresh fuel to the fire.

Matters grew worse and worse. His hair had grown
so thin that the scalp was plainly visible. He walked
with dragging footsteps and whenever his fellow students
met him in the street, they cut him as if he were pos-
sessed of all the vices. He noticed it and shunned them
in his turn. He only left his rooms in the evening. He
did not dare to go to bed at night. The iron which he
had taken to excess, had ruined his digestion, and in the
following summer the doctors sent him to Karlsbad.

On his return to Upsala, in the autumn, a rumoiu* got
abroad, an ugly rmnoiu*, which hung over the town like
a black cloud. It was as if a drain had been left open
and men were suddenly reminded that the town, that
splendid creation of civilisation, was built over a sea of
corruption, which might ^t any moment burst its bonds
and poison the inhabitants. It was said that Theodore
Wennerstroem, in a paroxysm of passion had assaulted one
of his friends, and the nmiour did not lie.

His father went to Upsala and had an interview with
the Dean of the Theological Faculty. The professor of
pathology was present. What was to be done? The doctor
remained silent. They pressed him for his opinion.

"Since you ask me," he said, "I must give you an answer;
but you Imow as well as I do that there is but one remedy."

"And that is?" asked the theologian.

"Need you ask?" replied the doctor.

"Yes," said the theologian, who was a married man.
"Surely, nature does not require immorality from a man?"

The father said that he quite imderstood the case, but
that he was afraid of making recommendations to his son,
on account of the risks the latter would run.

"If he can^t take care of himself he must be a fool," said
the doctor.

The Dean requested them to continue such an agitating
conversation in a more suitable place. ... He himself had
nothing more to add.

This ended the matter.

ASRA 39

Since Theodore was a member of the upper classes die
scandal was hushed up. A few years later he passed his
final, and was sent by the doctor to Spa. The amount
of quinine which he had taken had affected his knees and
he walked with two sticks. At Spa he looked so ill that
he was a conspicuous figure even in a crowd of invalids.

But an unmarried woman of thirty-five, a German, took
compassion on the imhappy man. She spent many hours
with him in a lonely summer arbour in die park, discuss*
ing the problems of life. She was a member of a big
evangelical society, whose object was the raising of the
moral standard. She showed him prospectuses for news-
papers and magazines, the principal mission of which was
the suppression of prostitution.

"Look at me," she said, "I am thirty-five years old and
enjoy excellent health! What fools' talk it is to say that
immorality is a necessary evil. I have watched and fought
a good fight for drist's sake."

The young clergyman silendy compared her well-
developed figure, her large hips, with his own wasted
body.

"What a difference there is between human beings in
this world," was his unspoken comment.

In the autumn the Rev. Theodore Wennerstroem and
Sophia Leidschiitz, spinster, were engaged to be married.

"Saved!" sighed the father, when the news reached him
in his house at Stockholm.

"I wonder how it will end," thought the brother in .
his barracks. "I'm afraid that my poor Theodore is 'one
of those Asra who die when they love.' "

Theodore Wennerstroem was married. Nine months after
the wedding his wife presented him with a boy who suf-
fered from rickets — ^another thirteen months and Theodore
Wennerstroem had breathed his last.

The doctor who filled up the certificate of death, looked
at the fine healthy woman, who stood weeping by the small
cofQn which contained the skeleton of her young husband
of not much over twenty years*

"The plus was too great, the minus too small," he
thouffht, "and dierefore the plus devoured the minus."

40 ASRA

But the father, who received the news of his son's death
on a Sunday, sat down to read a sermon. When he had
finished, he fell into a brown study.

"There must be something very wrong with a world
where virtue is rewarded witih death," he thought.

And the virtuous widow, nee Leidschiitz, had two more
husbands and eight children, wrote pamphlets on over-
population and immorality. But her brother-in-law called
her a cursed womjMi who killed her husbands.

The anything but virtuous lieutenant married and was
father of six children. He got promotion and lived hap-
pily to the end of his life.

LOVE AND BREAD

THE assistant had not thought of studying the price
of wheat before he called on the major to ask him
for the hand of his daughter; but the major had studied it.

"I love her," said the assistant.

"What's your salary?" said the old man.

"Well, twelve hundred crowns, at present; but we love
one another ..."

"That has nothing to do with me; twelve hundred
crowns is not enough."

"And then I make a little in addition to my salary,
and Louisa knows that my heart . . ."

"Don't talk nonsense! How much in addition to your
salary?"

He seized paper and pencil.

"And my feelings ..."

"How much in addition to your salary?"

And he drew hieroglyphics on the blotting paper.

"Oh! We'll get on well enough, if only . . ."

"Are you going to answer my question or not? How
much in addition to your salary? Figures! figures, my boy!
Facts!"

"I do translations at ten crowns a sheet; I give French
lessons, I am promised proof-correcting . . ."

"Promises aren't facts! Figures, my boy! Figures!
Look here, now, I'll put it down. What are you trans-
lating?"

"What am I translating? I can't tell you straight off."

"You can't tell me straight off? You are engaged on
a translation, you say; can't you tell me what it is? Don't
talk such rubbish!"

"I am translating Guizot's History of Civilisation, twenty-
five sheets."

"At ten crowns a sheet makes two hundred and fifty
crowns. And then?"

41

42 LOVE AND BREAD

"And then? How can I tell beforehand?"

"Indeed, can't you tell beforehand? But you oug^t to
know. You seem to imagme that being married simply
means living together and amusing yourselves! No, my
dear boy, there will be children, and children require feed-
ing and clothing."

"There needn't be babies directly, if one loves as we love
one another."

"How the dickens do you love one another?"

*^As we love one another." He put his hand on his
waistcoat.

"And won't there be any children if people love as you
love? You must be mad! But you are a decent, respect-
able member of society, and therefore I'll give my consent;
but make good use of the time, my boy, and increase your
income, for hard times are coming. The price of wheat
is rising."

The assistant grew red in the face when he heard the
last words, but his joy at the old man's consent was so
great that he seized his hand and kissed it. Heaven knew
how happy he was! When he walked for the first time
down the street with his future bride on his arm, they
both radiated light; it seemed to them that the passers-by
stood still and lined the road in honour of their triumphd
march; and they walked along with proud eyes, squared
shoulders and elastic steps.

In the evening he called at her house; they sat down
in the centre of the room and read proofs; she helped
him. "He's a good sort," chuckled the old man. When
they had finished, he took her in his arms and said: "Now
we have earned three crowns," and then he kissed her.
On the following evening they went to the theatre and
he took her home in a cab, and that cost twelve crowns.

Sometimes, when he ought to have given a lesson in the
evening, he (is there anything a man will not do for love's
sake?) cancelled his lesson and took her out for a walk
instead.

But the wedding-day approached. They were very busy.
They had to choose the furniture. They began with the

est important purchases. Louisa had not intended to be

LOVE AND BREAD 43

present when he bought the bedroom furniture, but when
it came to the point die went with him. They bought two
beds, which were, of course, to stand side by side. The
furniture had to be wahiut, every single piece real walnut.
And they must have spring mattresses covered with red
and white striped tick, and bolsters filled with down; and
two eiderdown quilts, exactly alike. Louisa chose blue,
because she was very fair.

They went to the best stores. They could not do with-
out a red hanging-lamp and a Venus made of plaster of
Paris. Then they bought a dinner-service; and six dozen
differently shaped glasses with cut edges; and knives and
forks, grooved and engraved with their initials. And then
the kitchen utensils! Mama had to accompany them to
see to those.

And what a lot he had to do besides! There were bills
to accept, journeys to the banks and interviews with trades-
people and artisans; a flat had to be found and curtains
had to be put up. He saw to everything. Of course he
had to neglect his work; but once he was married, he would
soon make up for it.

They were only going to take two rooms to begin with,
for they were going to be frightfully economical. And as
they were only going to have two rooms, they could afford
to fiunish them well. He rented two rooms and a kitchen
on the first floor in Government Street, for six hundred
crowns. When Louisa remarked that they might just as
well have taken three rooms and a kitchen on the fourth
floor for five hundred crowns, he was a little embarrassed;
but what did it matter if only they loved one another?
Yes, of course, Louisa agreed, but couldn't they have loved
one another just as well in four rooms at a lower rent, as in
three at a higher? Yes, he admitted that he had been fool-
ish, but what did it matter so long as they loved one
another?

The rooms were furnished. The bed-room looked like a
little temple. The two beds stood side by side, like two
carriages. The rays of the sun fell on the blue eiderdown
quilt, the white, white sheets and the little pillow-slips
which an elderlv maiden aunt had embroidered with their

44 LOVE AND BREAD

monogram; the latter consisted of two huge letters, formed
of flowers, joined together in one single embrace, and kiss-
ing here and there, wherever they touched, at the comers.
The bride had her own little alcove, which was screened off
by a Japanese screen. The drawing-room, which was also
dining-room, study and morning-room, contained her piano,
(which had cost twelve hundred crowns) his writing-table
with twelve pigeon-holes, (every single piece of it real wal-
nut) a pier-glass, armchairs; a sideboard and a dining-
table. "It looks as if nice people lived here," they said,
and they could not understand why people wanted a sepa-
rate dining-room, which always looked so cheerless with
its cane chairs.

The wedding took place on a Saturday. Sunday dawned,
the first day of their married life. Oh! what a life it wasi
Wasn't it lovely to be married I Wasn't marriage a splen-
did institution! One was allowed one's own way in every-
thing, and parents and relations came and congratulated one
into the bargain.

At nine o'clock in the morning their bedroom was still
dark. He wouldn't open the shutters to let in daylight,
but re-lighted the red lamp which threw its bewitching
light on die blue eiderdown, the white sheets, a little crum-
pled now, and the Venus made of plaster of Parb, who
stood there rosy-red and without shame. And the red
light also fell on his little wife who nestled in her pillows
with a look of contrition, and yet so refreshed as if she
had never slept so well in all her life. There was no traffic
in the street to-day for it was Sunday, and the church-
bells were calling people to the morning service with ex-
ulting, eager voices, as if they wanted all the world to
come to church and praise Him who had created men and
women.

He whispered to his little bride to shut her eyes so
that he might get up and order breakfast. She buried her
head in the pillows, while he slipped on his dressing-gown
and went behind the screen to dress.

A broad radiant path of sunlight lay on the sitting-
room floor; he did not know whether it was spring or sum-
mer, autumn or winter; he only knew that it was Sunday!

LOVE AND BREAD 45

His bachelor life was receding into the background like
something ugly and dark; the sight of his little home
stirred his heart with a faint recollection of the home of
his childhood, and at the same time held out a glorious
promise for the future.

How strong he felt I The future appeared to him like
a moimtain coming to meet him. He would breathe on
it and the mountain would fall down at his feet like sand;
he would fly away, far above gables and chimneys, holding
his little wife in his arm.

He collected his clothes which were scattered all over the
room; he found his white neck-tie hanging on a picture
frame; it looked like a big white butterfly.

He went into the kitchen. How the new copper vessels
sparkled, the new tin kettles shone! And all this be-
longed to him and to her I He called the maid who came
out of her room in her petticoat. But he did not notice
it, nor did he notice that her shoulders were bare. For
him there was but one woman in all the world. He spoke
to the girl as a father would to his daughter. He told her
to go to the restaurant and order breakfast, at once, a first-
rate breakfast. Porter and Burgundy! The manager knew
his taste. She was to give him his regards.

He went out of the kitchen and knocked at the bed-
room door.

"May I come in?"

There was a litde startled scream.

"Oh, no, darling, wait a bit!"

He laid the breakfast table himself. When the break-
fast was brought from the restaurant, he served it on her
new breakfast set. He folded the dinner napkins accord-
ing to all the rules of art. He wiped the wine-glasses, and
finally took her bridal-bouquet and put it in a vase before
her place.

When she emerged from her bed-room in her embroidered
morning gown and stepped into the brilliant simlight, she
felt just a tiny bit faint; he helped her into the armchair,
made her drii^ a little liqueur out of a liqueur glass and
eat a caviare sandwich.

What fun it all was! One could please oneself when

46 LOVE AND BREAD

one was married. What would Mama have said if she
had seen her daughter drinking liqueiu^ at this hour of
the morning!

He waited on her as if she were still his fiancde. What
a breakfast they were having on the first morning after
their wedding! And nobody had a right to say a word.
Everything was perfectly right and proper, one could enjoy
oneself with the very best of consciences, and that was the
most delightful part of it all. It was not for the first
time that he was eating such a breakfast, but what a dif-
ference between then and now! He had been restless and
dissatisfied then; he could not bear to think of it, now.
And as he drank a glass of genuine Swedish porter after
the oysters, he felt the deepest contempt for all bachelors.

"How stupid of people not to get married! Such self-
ishness! They ought to be taxed like dogs."

"I'm sorry for Siose poor men who haven't the means
to get married," replied his demure little wife kindly, "for
I am sure, if they had the means they would all get
married."

A little pang shot through the assistant's heart; for a
moment he felt afraid, lest he had been a little too ven-
turesome. All his happiness rested on the solution of a
financial problem, and if, if . . . Pooh! A glass of Bur-
gundy! Now he would work! They should see!

"Game? With cranberries and cucumbers!" The young
wife was a little startled, but it was really delicious.

"Lewis, darling," she put a trembling little hand on hi^
arm, "can we afford it?"

Fortunately she said "we."

"Pooh! It doesn't matter for once! Later on we can
dine on potatoes and herrings."

"Can you eat potatoes and herrings?"

"I should think so!"

"When you have been drinking more than is good for
you, and expect a beefsteak after the herring?"

"Nonsense! Nothing of the kind! Your health, sweet-
heart! The game is excellent! So are these artichokes!"

"No, but you are mad, darling! Artichokes at this time
of the year! What a bill you will have to pay ! "

LOVE AND BREAD 47

"Bill I ' Aren't they good? Don't you think that it is
glorious to be alive? Ohl It's splendid, splendid 1"

At six o'clock in the afternoon a carriage drove up to
the front door. The young wife would have been angry
if it had not been so pleasant to loll luxuriously on the soft
cushions, while they were being slowly driven to the Deer
Park.

"It's just like lying on a couch," whispered Lewis.

She playfully hit his fingers with her sunshade. Mutual
acquaintances bowed to them from the footpath. Friends
waved their hands to him as if they were saying:

"Hallo! you rascal, you have come into a fortunel"

How small the passers-by looked, how smooth the street
was, how pleasant their ride on springs and cushions!

Life should always be like that.

It went on for a whole month. Balls, visits, dinners, thea-
tres. Sometimes, of course, they remained at home. And
at home it was more pleasant than anywhere else. How
lovely, for instance, to carry off one's wife from her
parents' house, after supper, without saying as much as "by
your leave," put her into a closed carriage, slam the door,
nod to her people and say: "Now we're off home, to our
own four walls I And there well do exactly what we
like!"

And then to have a little supper at home and sit over
it, talking and gossiping until the small hours of thei
morning.

Lewis, was always very sensible at home, at least in
theory. One day his wife put him to the test by giving him
salt salmon, potatoes boiled in milk and oatmeal soup for
dinner. Ohl how he enjoyed it! He was sick of elabo-
rate menus.

On the following Friday, when she again suggested salt
salmon for dinner, Lewis came home, carrying two ptarmi-
gans! He called to her from the threshold:

"Just imagine, Lou, a most extraordinary thing hap-
pened! A most extraordinary thing!"

"Well, what is it?"

"You'll hardly believe me when I tell you that I bought

48 LOVE AND BREAD

a brace of ptarmigans, bougbt them myself at ihe market
for — guess!"

His little wife seemed more annoyed than curious.

"Just think! One crown the two!"

"I have bought ptarmigans at eightpence the brace;

but " she added in a more conciliatory tone, so as not

to upset him altogether, "that was in a very cold winter.**

"Well, but you must admit that I bought them very
cheaply."

Was there anything she would not admit in order to
see him happy?

She had ordered boiled groats for dinner, as an experi<
ment. But after Lewis had eaten a ptarmigan, he regretted
that he could not eat as much of the groats as, he would
have liked, in order to show her that he was really very
fond of groats.. He liked groats very much indeed — ^milk
did not agree with him after his attack of ague. He couldn't
take milk, but groats he would like to see on his table
every evening, every blessed evening of his life, if only
she wouldn't be angry with him.

And groats never again appeared on his table.

When they had been married for six weeks, the young
wife fell ill. She suffered from headaches and sickness. It
could not be anything serioud, just a little cold. But
this sickness? Had she eaten anything which had disagreed
with her? Hadn't all the copper vessels new coatings of
tin? He sent for the doctor. The doctor smiled and said
it was all right.

"What was all right? Oh! Nonsense! It wasn't pos-
sible. How could it have been possible? No, surely, the
bed-room paper was to blame. It must contain arsenic.
Let us send a piece to the chemist's at once and have it
tested."

"Entirely free from arsenic," reported the chemist.

"How strange! No arsenic in the wall papers?"

The young wife was still ill. He consulted a medical
book and whispered a question in her ear. "There now!
a hot bath!"

Four weeks later the midwife declared that everything
was "as it should be."

LOVE AND BREAD 49

"As it should be? Well, of course I Only it was some-
what premature I"

But as it could not be helped, they were delighted*
Fancy, a babyl They would be papa and mama I What
should they call him? For, of course, it would be a boy.
No doubt, it would. But now she had a serious conversa-
tion with her husband! There had been no translating
or proof-correcting since their marriage. And his salary
alone was not sufficient

"Yes, they had given no thought to the morrow. But,,
dear me, one was young only once! Now, however, there
would be a change."

On the following morning the assistant called on an
old schoolfriend, a registrar, to ask him to stand secunty
for a loan.

"You see, my dear fellow, when one is about to become
a father, one has to consider how to meet increasing
expenses."

"Quite so, old man," answered the registrar, "therefore
I have been unable to get married. But you are fortunate
in having the means."

The assistant hesitated to make his request. How could
he have the afudacity to ask this poor badielor to help him
to provide the expenses for the coming event? This bach-
elor, who had not the means to found a family of his own?
He could not bring himself to do it.

When he came home to dinner, his wife told him that
two gentlemen had called to see lum.

"What did they look like? Were they young? Did they
wear eye-glasses? Then there was no doubt, they were two
lieutenants, old friends of his whom he had met at
Vaxhohn."

"No, they couldn't have been lieutenants; they were
too old for that."

"Then he knew; they were old college friends from Up-
sala, probably P. who was a lecturer, and O. who was a
curate, now. They had come to see how their old pal
was shaping as a husband."

"No, they didn't come from Upsala, they came from
Stockholm."

so LOVE AND BREAD

The maid was called in and cross-examined. She thought
the callers had been shabbily dressed and had carried
sticks.

"Sticks! I can't make out what sort of people they can
have been. Well, we'll know soon enough, as they said
they would call again. But to change the subject, I hap-
pened to see a basket of hothouse strawberries at a really
ridiculous price; it really is absurd! Just imagine, hot^
house strawberries at one and sixpence a basket! Aiid at
this time of the year!"

"But, my darling, what is this extravagance to lead
to?"

"It'll be all right. I have got an order for a translation
this very day."

"But you are in debt, Lewis?"

"Trifles! Mere nothings! It'll be all right when I take
up a big loan, presently."

"A loan! But that'll be a new debt!"

"True! But therell be easy terms! Don't let's talk
business now! Aren't these strawberries delidotis? What?
A glass of sherry with them would be tip-top. Don't you
think so? Lina, run round to the stores and fetch a bottle
of sherry, the best they have."

After his afternoon nap, his wife insisted on a serious
conversation.

"You won't be angry, dear, will you?"

"Angry? II Good heavens, no! Is it about household
expenses?"

"Yes! We owe money at the stores! The butcher is
pressing for payment; the man from the livery stables has
called for his money; it's most unpleasant."

"Is that all? I shall pay them to the last farthing to-
morrow. How dare they worry you about such trifles?
They shall be paid to-morrow, but they shall lose a cus-
tomer. Now, don't let's talk about it any more. Come ^
out for a walk. No carriage! Well, we'll take the car to
the Deer Park, it will cheer us up."

They went to the Deer Park. They asked for a private
room at the restaurant, and people stared at them and
whispered.

LOVE AND BREAD 51

"They think we are out on a spree," he laughed.
"What fun! What madness!"

But his wife did not like it.

They had a big bill to pay.

"If only we had stayed at home! We might have bought
such a lot of things for the money."

Months elapsed. The great event was coming nearer
and nearer. A cradle had to be bought and baby-clothes.
A number of things were wanted. The young husband was
out on business all day long. The price of wheat had
risen. Hard times were at hand. He could get no trans-
lations, no proof-correcting. Men had become materialists.
They didn't spend money on books, they bought food*
What a prosaic period we were living in! Ideals were melt-
ing away, one after the other, and ptarmigans were not
to be had under two crowns the brace. The livery stables
would not provide carriages for nothing for the cab-
proprietors had wives and families to support, just as every-
body else; at the stores cash had to be paid for goods.
Oh! what realists they all were!

The great day had come at last. It was evening. He
must run for the midwife. And while his wife suffered
all the pangs of childbirth, he had to go down into the hall
and pacify the creditors.

At last he held a daughter in his arms. His tears fell
on the baby, for now he realised his responsibility, a re-
sponsibility which he was unable to shoulder. He made
new resolutions. But his nerves were imstrung. He was
working at a translation which he seemed unable to finish,
for he had to be constantly out on business.

He rushed to his father-in-law, who was staying in town,
to bring him the glad news.

"We have a little daughter!"

"Well and good," replied his father-in-law; "can you
support a child?"

"Not at present; for heaven's sake, help us, father!"

"ni tide you over your present difficulties. I can't do
more. My means are only sufficient to support my own
family."

52 LOVE AND BREAD

The patient required chickens which he bought himself
at the market, and wine at six crowns the bottie. It had
to be the very best.

The midwife expected a himdred crowns.

"Why should we pay her less than others? Hasn't she
just received a cheque for a hundred crowns from the cap-
tain?"

Very soon the young wife was up again. She looked like
a girl, as slender as a willow, a little pale, it was true, but
the pallor suited her.

The old man called and had a private conversation with
his son-in-law.

"No more children, for the present," he said, "or you'll
be ruined."

"What language from a father! Aren't we married I.
Don't we love one another? Aren't we to have a
family?"

"Yes, but not until you can provide for them. It's sll
very fine to love one another, but you musn't forget that
you have responsibilities."

His father-in-law, too, had become a materialist. Oh!
what a miserable world it was I A world without ideals!

The home was undermined, but love survived, for love
was strong, and the hearts of the young couple were soft.
The bailiff, on the contrary, was anything but soft. Dis-
traint was imminent, and bankruptcy tb'eatened. Well,
let them distrain then!

The father-in-law arrived with a large travelling coach to
fetch his daughter and grand-child. He warned his son-in-
law not to show his face at his house until he could pay his
debts and make a home for his wife and child. He said
nothing to his daughter, but it seemed to him that he was
bringing home a girl who had been led astray. It was as
if he had lent his innocent child to a casual admirer and
now received her back "dishonoured." She would have
preferred to stay with her husband, but he had no home
to offer her.

And so the husband of one year's standing was left be-
hind to watch the pillaging of his home, if he could call it
his home, for he had paid for nothing. The two men with

LOVE AND BREAD S3

spectacles carted away the beds and bedclothes; the copper
kettles and tin vessels; the dinner set, the chandelier and
the candlesticks; everything, everything!

He was left alone in the two empty, wretched rooms! If
only she had been left to him! But what should she do
here, in these empty rooms? No, she was better off where
she was! She was being taken care of.

Now the struggle for a livelihood began in bitter earnest.
He foimd work at a daily paper as a proof-corrector. He
had to be at the office at midnight; at three in the morning
his work was done. He did not lose his berth, for bank-
ruptcy had been avoided, but he had lost all chance of pro-
motion.

Later on he is permitted to visit wife and child once a
week, but he is never allowed to see her alone. He spends
Saturday night in a tiny room, close to his father-in-law*s
bedroom. On Sunday morning he has to return to town,
for the paper appears on Monday morning ... He says
good-bye to his wife and child who are allowed to accom-
pany him as far as the garden gate, he waves his hand to
them once more from the furthest hillock, and succumbs to
his wretchedness, his misery, his humiliation. And she is
no less unhappy.

He has calculated that it will take him twenty years to
pay his debts. And then? Even then he cannot maintain
a wife and child. And his prospects? He has none! If
his father-in-law should die, his wife and child would be
thrown on the street; he cannot venture to look forward
to the death of their only support.

Oh! How cruel it is of nature to provide food for all her
creatures, leaving the children of men alone to starve! Oh!
How cruel, how cruel! that life has not ptarmigans and
strawberries to give to all men. How cruel I How cruel!

COMPELLED TO

PUNCTUALLY at half past nine on a winter evening he
appears at the door leading to the glass-roofed veran-
dah of the restaurant. While, with mathematical precision,
he takes off his gloves, he peers over his dim spectacles, first
to the right, then to die left, to find out whether any of his
acquaintances are present. Then he hangs up his overcoat
on its special hook, the one to the right of the fireplace.
Gustav, the waiter, an old pupil of his, flies to his table and,
without waiting for an order, brushes the crumbs off the
tablecloth, stirs up the mustard, smooths the salt in the
salt-cellar and turns over the dinner napkin. Then he
fetches, still without any order, a bottle of Medhamra,
opens half a bottle of Union beer and, merely for appear-
ance sake, hands the schoolmaster the bill of fare.

''Crabs?" he asks, more as a matter of form than because
there is any need of the question.

"Female crabs," answers the schoolmaster.

"Large, female crabs," repeats Gustav, walks to the speak-
ing tube which commimicates with the kitchen, and shouts:
"Large female crabs for Mr. Blom, and plenty of dill."

He fetches butter and cheese, cuts two very thin slices of
rye-bread, and places them on the schoolmaster's table. *
The latter has in the meantime searched the verandah for
the evening papers, but has only found the official Post, To
make up for this very poor success, he takes the Daily
Journal, which he had not had time to finish at lunch, and
after first opening and refolding the Post, and putting it
on the top of the bread basket on his left, sits down to read
it. He ornaments the rye-bread with geometrical butter
hieroglyphics, cuts off a piece of cheese in the shape of a
rectangle, fills his liqueur glass three quarters full and
raises it to his lips, hesitates as if the little glass contained
physic, throws back his head and says: Ugh I

55

56 COMPELLED TO

He has done this for twelve years and will continue doing
it until the day of his death.

As soon as the crabs, six of them, have been put before
him, he examines them as to their sex, and everything being
as it should be, makes ready to enjoy himself. ELe tucks
a comer of his dinner napkin into his collar, places two
slices of thin bread and dieese by the side of his plate and
pours out a glass of beer and half a glass of liqueur. Then
he takes the little crab-knife and business begins. He is
the only man in Sweden who knows how to eat a crab, and
whenever he sees anybody else engaged in the same pursuit,
he tells him that he has no idea how to do it. He makes
an incision all round the head, and a hole against which he
presses his lips and begins to suck.

"This," he sa3rs, "is the best part of the whole animal."

He severs the thorax from the lower part, puts his teeth
to the body and drinks deep draughts; he sucks the little
legs as if they were asparagus, eats a bit of dill, and
takes a drink of beer and a mouthful of rye-bread. When
he has carefully taken the shell off the daws and sucked
even the tiniest tubes, he eats the flesh; last of all he at-
tacks the lower part of the body. When he has eaten three
crabs, he drinks half a glass of liqueur and reads the pro-
motions in the Post,

He has done this for twelve years and will continue doing
it until he dies.

He was just twenty years old when he first began to
patronise the restaurant, now he is thirty-two, and Gustav
has been a waiter for ten years in the same place. Not one
of its frequenters has known the restaurant longer than the
school-master, not even the proprietor who took it over eight
years ago. He has watched generations of diners come and
go; some came for a year, some for two, some for five years;
then they disappeared, went to another restaurant, left the
town or got married. He feels very old, although he is
only thirty-two! The restaurant is his home, for his fur-
nished room is nothing but the place where he sleeps.

It is ten o'clock. He leaves his table and goes to the
back room where his grog awaits him. This is the time

ten the bookseller arriveis. They play a game of chess or

COMPELLED TO 57

talk about books. At half-past ten .the second violm from
the Dramatic Theatre drops in. He is an old Pole who,
after 1864, escaped to Sweden, and now makes a living
by his former hobby. Both the Pole and the bookseller are
over fifty, but they get on with the schoolmaster as if he
were a contemporary.

The proprietor has his place behind the counter. He is
an old sea captain who fell in love with the proprietress and
married her. She rules in the kitchen, but the sliding panel
is always open, so that she can keep an eye on the old man,
lest he should take a glass too much before closing time.
Not until the gas has been turned out, and the old man is
ready to go to bed, is he allowed a nightcap in the shape
of a stiff glass of rum and water.

At eleven o'clock the young bloods begin to arrive; they
s^proach the counter diffidently and ask the proprietor in
a whisper whether any of the private rooms upstairs are
disengaged, and then there is a rustling of skirts in the hall
and cautious footsteps are creeping upstairs.

"Well," says the bookseller, who has suddenly found a
topic of conversation, "when are you going to be married,
Blom, old man?"

"I haven't the means to get married," answered the school-
master. "Why don't you take a wife to your bosom your-
self?"

"No woman would have me, now that my head looks like
an old, leather-covered trunk," says the bookseller. "And,
moreover, there's my old Stafva, you know."

Stafva was a legendary person in whom nobody believed.
She was the incarnation of the bookseller's unrealised
dreams.

"But you, Mr. Potocki?" suggested the schoolmaster.

"He's been married once, that's enough," replies the
bookseller.

The Pole nods his head like a metrometer.

"Yes, I was married very happily. Ugh I" he says and
finishes his grog.

"Well," continues the schoolmaster, "if women weren't
such fools, one might consider the matter; but they are
infernal fools."

58 COMPELLED TO

The Pole nods again and smiles; being a Pole, he doesn't
understand what the word fool means.

"I have been married very happily, ugh!"

"And then there is the noise of the children, and chil-
dren's clothes always dr5dng near the stove; and serv-
ants, and all day long the smells from the kitchen. No,
thank you I And, perhaps, sleepless nights into the
bargain."

"Ugh I" added the Pole, completing the sentence.

"Mr. Potocki says *ugh* with the malice of the bachelor
who listens to the complaints of tihe married man," re-
marked the bookseller.

"What did I say?" asks the astonished widower.

"Ugh!" says the bookseller, mimicking him, and the
conversation degenerates into a imiversal grinning and a
cloud of tobacco smoke.

It is midnight. The piano upstairs, which has accom-
panied a mixed choir of male and female voices, is silent.
The waiter has finished his countless journeys from the
speaking tube to the verandah; the proprietor enters into
his daybook the last few bottles of champagne which have
been ordered upstairs. The three friends rise from their
chairs and go home, two to their "virgin couches," and the
bookseller to his Stafva.

When schoolmaster Blom had reached his twentieth year,
he was compelled to interrupt his studies at Upsala and ac-*
cept a post as assistant teacher at Stockholm. As he, in
addition, gave private lessons, he made quite a good income.
He did not ask much of life. All he wanted was peace and
cleanliness. An elderly lady let him a furnished room and
there he found more than a bachelor finds as a rule. She
looked after him and was kind to him; she gave him all
the tenderness which nature had intended her to bestow on
the new generation that was to spring from her. She
mended his clothes and looked after him generally. He had
lost his mother- when he was a little boy and had never
been accustomed to gratuitous kindness; therefore he was
inclined to look upon her services as an interference with
his liberty, but he accepted them nevertheless. But all the

COMPELLED TO 59

same the public house was his real home. There he paid
for everything and ran up no bills.

He was bom in a small town in the interior of Sweden;
consequently he was a stranger in Stockholm. He knew
nobody; was not on visiting terms with any of the families
and met his acquaintances nowhere but at the public-house.
He talked to them freely, but never gave them his confi-
dence, in fact he had no confidence to give. At school he
taught the third class and this gave him a feeling of having
been stunted in his growth. A very long time ago he had
been in the third class himself, had gradually crept up to
the seventh, and had spent a few terms at the University;
now he had returned to the third; he had been there for
twelve years without being moved. He taught the second
and third books of Euclid; this was the course of instruction
for the whole year. He saw only a fragment of life; a
fragment without beginning or end; the second and third
books. In his spare time he read the newspapers and books
on archaeology. Archaeology is a modem science, one might
almost say a disease of the time. And there is danger in it,
for it proves over and over again that human folly has
pretty nearly always been the same.

Politics was to him nothing but an interesting game of
chess — ^played for the king, for he was brought up like
everybody else; it was an article of faith with him that
nothing which happened in the world, concemed him, per-
sonally; let those look to it whom God had placed in a
position of power. This way of looking at things filled his
soi|l with peace and tranquillity; he troubled nobody and
nothing troubled him. When he found, as he did oc-
casionaJly, that an unusually foolish event had occurred,
he consoled himself with the conviction that it could not
have been helped. His education had made him selfish,
and the catechism had taught him that if everybody did his
duty, all things would be well, whatever happened. He did
his duty towards his pupils in an exemplary fashion; he was
never late; never ill. In his private life, too, he was abovf
rq>roach; he paid his rent on the day it fell due^ never raa
up bills at his restaurant, and spent only one evening a
week on pleasure. His life glided along like a railway train

6o COMPELLED TO

on polished lines, passing through the various stations punc-
tually to the second and, being a clever man, he managed to
avoid collisions. He gave no thought to the futiu'e; a truly
selfish man never does, for the simple reason that the future
belongs to him for no longer than twenty or thirty years
at the most.

And thus his days passed.

Midsummer morning dawned — radiant and sunny as mid-
summer morning should be. The schoolmaster was still in<
bed, reading a book on the Art of Warfare in ancient
Egypt, when Miss Augusta came into his room with his
breakfast. She had put on his tray some slices of saf-
fron bread, in honour of the festivd, and on his dinner-
napkin lay a spray of elder blossoms. On the previous
night she had decorated his room with branches of
the birch-tree, put clean sand and some cowslips in the
spittoon, and a bunch of lilies-of-the-valley on the dress-
ing table.

"Aren't you going to make an excursion to-day, sir?" she
asked, glancing at the decorations, anxious for a word of
thanks or approval.

But Mr. Blom had not even noticed the decorations, and
therefore he answered dryly:

"Haven't you realised yet that I never make excursions?
I hate elbowing my way through a crowd, and the noise of
the children gets on my nerves."

"But surely you won't stay in town on such a lovely day I
You'll at least go to the Deer Park?"

"That would be the very last place I should go to, espe-
cially to-day, when it will be crowded. Oh! no, I'm better
off in town, and I wish to goodness that this holiday nui-
sance would be stopped."

"There are plenty of people who say that there aren't
half enough holidays these days when everybody has to
work so hard," said the old woman in a conciliatory tone.
'''But is there anything else you wish, sir? My sister and
I are making an excursion by steamer, and we shan't be
back until ten o'clock to-night."

"I hope you'll enjoy yourselves. Miss Augusta. I want

COMPELLED TO 6i

nothing^ and am quite able to look after myself. The care-
taker can do my room when I have gone out."

Miss Augusta left him alone with his breakfast. When
he had eaten it, he lit a cigar and remained in bed with his
Egyptian Warfare, The open window shook softly in the
southern breeze. At eight o'clock the bells, large and small,
of the nearest church began to ring, and those of the other
churches of Stockholm, St. Catherine's, St. Mary's and St.
Jacob's, joined in; they tinkled and jingled, enough to make
a heathen tear his hair in despair. When the church bells
stopped, a military band on the bridge of a steamer began
to play a set of quadrilles from The Weak Point. The
schoolmaster writhed between his sheets, and would have
got out of bed and shut the window if it had not beeh so
hot. Next there came a rolling of drums, which was inter-
rupted by the strains of a brass quintet which played, on
another steamer, the Hunter's Chorus from the FreischUtz.
But the cursed rolling of drums approached. They were
marching at the head of the Riflemen on their way to
camp. Now he was subjected to a medley of sounds: the
Riflemen's march, the signals, the bells and the brass bands
on the steamers, until at last the whole crash and din was
drowned by the throbbing of the screw.

At ten o'clock he lit his spirit lamp and boiled his shav-
ing water. His starched shirt lay on his chest of drawers,
wUte and stiff as a board. It took him a quarter of an
hour to push the studs through the button-holes. He spent
half-an-hour in shaving himself. He brushed his hair as if
it were a matter of the utmost importance. When he put
on his trousers, he was careful that the lower ends should
not touch the floor and become dusty.

His room was simply furnished, extremely plain and tidy.
It was impersonal, neutral, like the room in a hotel. And
yet he had spent in it twelve years of his life. Most people
collect no end of trifles during such a period; presents,
little superfluous nothings, ornaments. Not a single en-
graving, not a supplement to an illustrated magazine even,
which at some time or other had appealed to him, hung on
the walls; no antimacassar, no rug worked by a loving
sister, lay on the chairs; no photograph of a beloved face

62 COMPELLED TO

stood on his writing-table, no embroidered pen-wiper lay
by the side of the ink-stand. Everything had been bought
as cheaply as possible with a view to avoiding unnecessary
expense which might have hampered the owner's inde-
pendence.

He leaned out of the window which gave him a view of
the street and, across Artillery Place, of the harbour. In
the house opposite a woman was dressing. He turned away
as if something ugly had met his gaze, or something which
might disturb his peace of mind. The harbour was gay with
the fluttering flags on the steamers and sailing-ships, and
the water glittered in the sunshine. A few old women,
prayer-book in hand, passed his window on their way to
church. A sentinel with drawn sword was walking up and
down before the Artillery Barracks, glancing discontentedly
at the clock on the tower every now and then to see how
much longer he would have to wait until the relieving guard
arrived. Otherwise the street lay empty and grey in the
hot sunshine. His eyes wandered back to the woman op-
posite. She was standing before her looking-glass, powder
puff in hand, intent on powdering the comers of her nose,
with a grimace which made her look like a monkey. He
left the window and sat down in his rocking chair.

He made his programme for the day, for he had a vague
dread of solitude. On week days he was surrounded by
the school-boys, and although he had no love for those
wild beasts whose taming, or rather whose efficient acquisi-*
tion of the difficult art of dissembling, was his life task, yet
he felt a certain void when he was not with them. Now,
during the long summer vacations, he had established a
holiday school, but even so he had been compelled to give
the boys short summer holidays, and, with the exception of
meal times when he could always count on the bookseller
and the second violin, he had been alone for several
days.

"At two o'clock," he mused, "when the guard has been
relieved, and the crowds have dispersed, I'll go to my res-
taurant to dine; then 111 invite the bookseller to Stroms-
borg; there won't be a soul to-day; we can have coffee there
and punch, and stay till the evening when well return to

COMPELLED TO 63

\frvctk and to Rejner's." (Rejner's was the name of his
restaurant in Berzelius Place.)

Punctually at two o'clock he took his hat, brushed him-
self carefully and went out.

"I wonder whether therell be stewed perch to-day," he
thought. ''And mightn't one treat oneself to asparagus, as
it's midsummer-day?"

He strolled past the high wall of the Government Bakery.
In Berzelius Park the seats which were usually occupied by
the nursemaids of the rich and their charges, were crowded
with the families of the labourers who had appeared in great
numbers with their perambulators. He saw a mother feed-
ing her baby. She was a large, full-breasted woman, and
the baby's dimpled hand almost disappeared in her bosom.
The schoolmaster turned away with a feeling of loathing.
He was annoyed to see these strangers in his park. It was
very much like the servants using the drawing-room when
their master and mistress had gone out; moreover, he
couldn't forgive them their plainness.

He arrived at the glass verandah, and put his hand on
the door handle, thinking once more of the stewed perch
"with lots of parsley," when his eyes fell on a notice on the
door. There was no necessity to read it, he knew its pur-
port: the restaurant was closed on midsummer-day; he had
forgotten it. He felt as if he had run with his head into a
lamp-post. He was furious; first of all with the proprietor
for closing, then with himself for having forgotten that the
restaurant would be closed. It seemed to him so monstrous
that he could have forgotten an incident of such impor-
tance, that he couldn't believe it and racked his brain to
find someone on whom he could lay the blame. Of course,
it was the fault of the proprietor. He had run off the lines,
come into collision. He was done. He sat down on the
seat and almost shed tears of rage.

Thump I a ball hit him right in the middle of his starched
shirt front. Like an infuriated wasp he rose from his seat
to find the criminal; a plain little girPs face laughed into
his; a labourer in his Sunday clothes and straw hat ap-
peared, took her by the hand and smilingly expressed a
hope that the child had not hurt him; a lau^ng crowd of

64 COMPELLED TO

soldiers and servant girls stared at him. He looked round
for a constable for he felt that his rights as a human being
had been encroached upon. But when he saw the constable
in familiar conversation with the child's mother, he dropped
the idea of making a scene, went straight to the nearest cab-
stand, hired a cab, and told the driver to drive him to the
bookseller's; he could not bear to be alone any longer.

In the safe shelter of the cab he took out his handker-
chief and flicked the dust from his shirt front.

He dismissed the cab in Goten Street, for he felt sure
that he would find his friend at home. But as he walked
upstairs his assurance left him. Supposing he were out
after all!

He was out. Not one of the tenants was at home. His
knock sounded through an empty house; his footsteps re-
echoed on the deserted stairs.

When he was again in the street he was at a loss to know
what to do. He did not know Potocki's address, and where
was he to find an address book on a day when all the shops
were closed?

Without knowing where he was going, he went down the
street, past the harbour, across the bridge. He did not
meet a single man he faiew. The presence of the crowd
which occupied the town during the absence of their betters
annoyed him, for, like the rest of us, the education which
he had received at school had made an aristocrat of him.

In his first anger he had forgotten his hunger, but now
it re-asserted itself. A new, terrible thought occurred to
him, a thought which up to now he had put away from him
out of sheer cowardice: Where was he to dine? He had
started out with plenty of vouchers in his pocket, but only
one crown and fifty ore in coin. The vouchers were only
used at Rejner's, for convenience sake, and he had spent
a crown on his cabfare.

He found himself again in Berzelius Park. Everywhere
he met labourers and their families, eating what they had
brought with them in baskets; hard-boiled eggs, crabs, pan-
cakes. And the police did not interfere. On the contrary,
he saw a policeman with a sandwich in one hand and a
glass of beer in the other. But what irritated him more

COMPELLED TO 6S

than anything else was the fact that these people whom he
despised had the advantage of him. But why couldn't he
go into a dairy and appease his hunger? Yes, why not?
The very thought of it made him shudder.

After some little reflection he went down to the harbour,
intending to cross over to the Deer Park. He was bound to
find acquaintances there from whom he could borrow money
(hateful thought! ) for his dinner. And if so, he would dine
at "Hazelmoxmt," the best restaurant.

The steamer was so crowded that schoolmaster Blom had
to stand close to the engine; the heat at his back was in-
tolerable; his morning coat was being covered with grease
spots, while he stood, with his gaze rivetted on the untidy
head of a servant girl and endured the rancid smell of the
hair-oil. But he did not see a single face he knew.

When he entered the restaurant in the Deer Park, he
squared his shoulders and tried to look as distinguished as
possible.

The space before the restaurant was like the auditorium
of a theatre and seemed to serve the same purpose: that is
to say, it was a place where one met one's friends and
showed off. The verandah was occupied by officers, blue in
the face with eating and drinking; with ihem were repre-
sentatives of the foreign Powers, grown old and grey in
their strenuous efforts to protect fellow-countrymen who
had got mixed up with sailors and fishermen in drunken
brawls, or assist at Gala performances, christenings, wed-
dings and funerals. So much for the aristocracy. In the
centre of a large space Mr. Blom suddenly discovered the
chimney sweep of his quarter, the proprietor of a small inn,
the chemist's assistant and others of the same standing.
He watched the game-keeper in his green coat and silver
lace, with his gilt staff, walking up and down and casting
contemptuous glances at the assembled crowd, as if he were
wondering why they were here? The schoolmaster felt self-
conscious under the stare of all those eyes which seemed to
say: "Look at him! there he goes, wondering how to get
dinner!" But there was nothing else for it. He went on
to the verandah where the people sat eating perch and
BBpaxagQS, and drinking Sautemes and Champagne.

66 COMPELLED TO

All of a sudden he felt the pressure of a friendly hand on
his shoulder, and as he turned round, he found himself face
to face with Gustav, the waiter, who seized his hand and
exclaimed with undisguised pleasure:

"Is that really you, Mr. Blom? How are you?"

But Gustav, the waiter, who was so pleased to find him-
self for a few moments the equal of his master, held a piece
of wood in his warm hand and met a pair of eyes which
pierced his soul like gimlets. And yet tids same hand had
given him ten crowns only yesterday, and the owner of it
had thanked him for six months' service and attention in
the way one thanks a friend. The waiter went back to his
companions and sat down amongst them, embarrassed and
snubbed. But Mr. Blom left the verandah with bitter
thoughts and pushed his way through the crowd; he fancied
that he could hear a mocking: "He hasn't been able to get
dinner, after all!"

He came to a large open space. There was a puppet-
show, and Jasper was being beaten by his wife. A little
further off a sailor was showing servant girls, soldiers and
apprentices their future husband or wife in a wheel of for-
tune. They all had had dinner and were enjoying them-
selves; for a moment he believed himiself their inferior, but
only for a moment; then he remembered that they had not
the vaguest idea of how an Egyptian camp was fortified.
The thought gave him back his self-respect, and he won-
dered how it was possible that people could be so degraded
as to find pleasure in such childishness.

In the meantime he had lost all inclination to try the
other restaurants; he passed the Tivoli and went further
into the heart of the park. Young men and women were
dancing on the grass to the strains of a violin: a little fur-
ther off a whole family was camping under an old oak; the
head of the family was kneeling down, in his shirt sleeves,
with bare head, a glass of beer in one hand, a sandwich in
the other; his fat, jolly, clean-shaven face beamed with
pleasure and good-nature as he invited his guests, who were
evidently his wife, parents-in-law, brothers, shop-assistants
and servants, to eat, drink and be merry, for to-day was
Midsummer day, all day long. And the jovial fellow made

COMPELLED TO 67

such droll remarks that the whole party writhed on the
grass with amusement. After the pancake had been pro-
duced and eaten with the fingers, and the port bottle been
round, the senior shop assistant made a speech which was
at once so moving and so witty that the ladies at one mo-
ment pressed their handkerchiefs to their eyes, while the
head of the family bit his lips, and at the next interrupted
the speaker with loud laughter and cheers.

The schoolmaster's mood became more and more morose^
but instead of going away he sat down on a stone under a
pinetree and watched "the animals."

When the speech was finished and father and mother
had been toasted with cheers and a flourish of trumpets,
executed on a concertina, accompanied by the rattling of
all cups and saucers that happened to be empty, the party
rose to play "Third Man," while mother and mother-in-
law attended to the babies.

"Just like the beasts in the field," thought the school-
master, turning away, for all that was natural was ugly in
his eyes, and only that which was unnatural could lay any
claim to beauty in his opinion, except, of course, the paint-
ings of "well-known" masters in the National Museum.

He watched the young men taking off their coats, the
young girls slipping off their cuffs and hanging them on the
blackthorn bushes; then they took up their positions and
the game began.

The girls picked up their skirts and threw up their legs so
that their garters, made of blue and red braid such as the
grocers sell for tying up pots, were plainly visible, and
whenever the cavalier caught his lady, he took her in his
arms and swung her round so that her skirts flew; and
young and old shrieked so with laughter that the park re-
echo^.

"Is this innocence or corruption?" wondered the school-
master.

But evidently the party did not know what the learned
word ^'corruption" meant, and that was the reason why they
were so merry.

By the time they were tired of playing "Third Man"
tea was ready. The schoolmaster was puzzled to know

68 COMPELLED TO

where the cavaliers had learnt their fine manners, for they
moved about on all fours to offer the girls sugar and cake;
and the straps of their waistcoats stood out like handles.

"The males showing off before the females I" thought the
schoolmaster. "They don't know what they are in for."

He noticed how the head of the family, the jolly fellow,
waited on father and mother-in-law, wife, shop-assistants
and servant girls: and whenever one of them begged him
to help himself first, he invariably answered that there was
plenty of time for that.

He watched the father-in-law peeling a willow branch to
make a flute for the little boy; he watched the mother-in-
law wash up as if she had been one of the servants. And
he thought that there was something strange about selfish-
ness, since it could be so cleverly disguised that it looked
as if no one gave more than he received; for it must be
selfishness, it couldn't be anything else.

They played at forfeits and redeemed every forfeit with
kisses, true, genuine, resounding kisses on the lips; and
when the jolly book-keeper was made to kiss the old oak-
tree, his conduct was too absurd for anything; he embraced
and caressed the gnarled trunk as if it had been a girl
whom he had met secretly; everybody shouted with laugh-
ter, for all knew how to do it, aldiough none of them would
have liked to be caught doing it.

The schoolmaster who had begun by watching the spec-
tacle with critical eyes, fell more and more under the spell
of it; he almost believed himself to be one of the party. He
smiled at the sallies of the shop-assistants, and before an
hour was gone the head of the family had won his whole
sympathy. No one could deny that the man was a come-
dian of the first rank. He could play "Skin-the-cat"; he
could "walk backwards," "lie" on the tree-trunks, swallow
coins, eat fire, and imitate all sorts of birds. And when he
extracted a saffron cake from the dress of one of the girls
and made it disappear in his right ear, the schoolmaster
laughed until his empty inside adbed.

Then the dancing began. The schoolmaster had read in
Rabe's grammar: Nemo sal tat sobrius, nisi forte insanit,
and had alwa3rs looked upon dancing as a species of insanity.

COMPELLED TO 69

True, he had watched puppies and calves dancing when
they felt frisky, but he did not believe that Cicero's maxim
applied to the animal world, and he was in the habit of
drawing a sharp line between men and animals. Now, as
he sat watching these young people who were quite sober,
and neither hungry nor thirsty, moving round and round to
the slow measures of the concertina, he felt as if his soul
were in a swing which was being kept going by his eyes and
ears, and his right foot beat time gently on the springy
turf.

He spent three hours musing and watching, then he rose.
He found it almost difficult to tear himself away; it was
just as if he were leaving a merry party to whidi he had
been invited; but his mood had changed; he felt more
reconciled. He was at peace with the world and pleasantly
tired, as if he had been enjoying himself.

It was evening. Smart carriages passed him, the lady-
occupants lolling on the back seats and looking in their
long, white theatre wraps like corpses in their shrouds;
it was fashionable then to look as if one had been exhumed.
The schoolmaster, whose thoughts were running in another
direction, was sure that the ladies must be bored to death
and felt no trace of envy. Below the dusty highroad, far
out on the sea, the steamers with their flags and brass bands
were returning from their pleasure trips; cheers, strains of
music and snatches of song were wafted by the sea breezes
to the mountains and the Deer Park.

The schoolmaster had never felt so lonely in his life as
he did this evening in the moving throng. He fancied that
everybody was looking at him compassionately as he made
his solitary way through the crowd, and almost gave way to
self-pity. He would have liked to talk to the first comer,
for the mere pleasure of hearing his voice, for in his loneli-
ness he felt as if he were walking by the side of a stranger.
And now his conscience smote him. He remembered the
waiter Gustav, who had been unable to hide his pleasure at
meeting him. Now he had arrived at a point when he would
have given worlds if anybody had met him and shown any
pleasure at the fact. But nobody came.

YeSt somebody did, after all. As he was sitting by him-

70 COMPELLED TO

self on the steamer, a setter, who had lost his master, came
to him and put its head on his knee. The schoolmaster
was not particularly fond of dogs, but he allowed it to stay;
he felt it pressing its soft warm body against his leg, he
saw the eyes of the forsaken brute looking at him in dumb
appeal, as if it were asking him to find its master.

But as soon as they landed, the setter ran away. "It
needed me no longer," thought the schoolmaster, and he
walked home and went to bed.

These trifling incidents of Midsummer day had robbed
the schoolmaster of his assurance. They taught him that
all foresight, all precautions, all the clever calculations in
the world availed nothing. He felt a certain instability in
his surroundings. Even the public house, his home, was
not to be counted on. It might be closed any day. More-
over, a certain reserve on the part of Gustav troubled him.
The waiter was as civil as before, more attentive even, but
his friendship was gone; he had lost confidence. It af-
forded the schoolmaster food for thought, and whenever a
tough piece of meat, or too small a dish of potatoes was set
before him he thought:

"Haha I He's paying me out ! "

It was a bad summer for the schoolmaster: the second
violin was out of town and the book-seller frequented
"Mosesheight," a garden restaurant in his own district,
situated on a hill.

On an evening in autumn the bookseller and the second
violin were sitting at their favourite table, drinking a glass
of punch, when the schoolmaster entered, carrjdng under
his arm a parcel which he carefully hid in an empty hamper
in a cupboard used for all sorts of lumber. He was ill-
tempered and unusually irritable.

"Well, old boy," the bookseller began for the hundredth
time, "and when are you going to be married?"

"Confound your 'when are you going to be married!'
As if a man hadn't enough trouble without it I Why don't
you get married yourself?" growled the schoolmaster.

"Oh! because I have my old Stafva," answered the book-
seller, who always had a number of stereot3T)ed answersdn
readiness.

COMPELLED TO 71

"I was married very happily," said the Pole, "but my
wife is dead, now, ugh!"

"Is she?" mimicked the schoolmaster; "and the gentle-
man is a widower? How am I to reconcile these facts?"

The Pole nodded, for he did not in the least miderstand
what the schoolmaster was driving at.

The latter felt bored by his friends; their topic of con-
versation was always the same; he knew their replies by
heart.

Presently he went into the corridor for a few moments to
fetch his cigar-case which he had left in the pocket of his
overcoat. The bookseller instantly raided the cupboard
and returned with the mysterious parcel. As it was not
sealed, he opened it quickly; it contained a beautiful Amer-
ican sleeping-stiit; he hung it carefully over the back of the
schoolmaster's chair.

"Ugh!" said the Pole, grinning, as if he were looking at
some^ing unsightly.

The proprietor of the restaurant who loved a practical
joke, bent over the counter, laughing loudly; the waiter
stood rooted to the spot, and one of the cooks peeped
through the door which communicated with the kitchen.

When the schoolmaster came back and realised the trick
played on him, he grew pale with anger; he immediately
suspected the booksdler; but when his eyes fell on Gustav
who was standing in a comer of the room, laughing, his old
obsession returned to him: "He's paying me out!" With-
out a word he seized his property, threw a few coins on the
counter and left the restaurant.

Henceforth the schoolmaster avoided Rejner's. The
bookseller had heard that he dined at a restaurant in his
own district. This was true. But he was very discon-
tented! The food was not actually bad, but it was not
cooked to his liking. The waiters were not attentive. He
often thought of returning to Rejner's, but his pride would
not let him. He had been turned out of his home; in five
minutes a bond of many years' standing had been
severed.

A short time after fate struck him a fresh blow. Miss
Augusta had inherited a little fortune in the provinces and

72 COMPELLED TO

had decided to leave Stockholm on the first of October.
The schoolmaster had to look out for new lodgings.

But he had been spoilt, and there was no pleasing him.
He changed his room every month. There was nothing
wrong with the rooms, but they were not like his old room.
It had become such a habit with him to walk through cer-
tain streets, that he often found himself before his old front
door before he realised his mistake. He was like a lost
child.

Eventually he went to live in a boarding house, a solution
which he had always loathed and dreaded. And then his
friends lost sight of him altogether.

One evening, as the Pole was sitting alone over his grog,
smoking, driid:ing, and nodding with the capacity of Hie
oriental to lapse into complete stupor, the bookseller burst
in on him like a thunderstorm^ flung his hat on the table,
and shouted:

^'Confound him! Has anybody ever heard anything like
it?"

The Pole roused himself from his brandy-and-tobacco
Nirvana, and rolled his eyes.

'^I say, confound it! Has anybody ever heard anything
like it? He's going to be married 1"

"Who's going to be married?" asked the Pole, startled by
the bookseller's violence and emphatic language.

"Schoolmaster Blom!"

The bookseller expected a glass of grog in exchange for
his news. The proprietor left the counter and came to
their table to listen.

"Has she any money?" he asked acutely.

"I don't think so," replied the bookseller, conscious of
his temporary importance and selling his wares one by one.

"Is she beautiful?" asked the Pole. "My wife was very
beautiful. Ughl"

"No, she's not beautiful either," answered the bocrf^seller,
"but nice-looking."

"Have you seen her?" enquired the proprietor. "Is she
old?" His eyes wandered towards the kitdien door.

"No, she's young!"

"And her Barents?" continued the proprietor.

' COMPELLED TO 73

''I heard that her father was a brass founder in Orebro."

"The rascal! Well, I never 1 " said the proprietor.

"ELaven't I always said so? The man is a bom husband/'
said the bookseller.

"We all of us are," said the proprietor, "and take my
word for it, no one escapes his fate!"

With this philosophical remark he closed the subject and
returned to the counter.

When they had settled that the schoolmaster was not
marrying for money, they discussed the problem of "what
the young people were going to live on." The bookseller
made a guess at the schoolmaster's salary and "what he
might earn besides by giving private lessons."

When that question, too, had been settled, the proprietor,
who had returned to the table, asked for details.

"Where had he met her? Was she fair or dark? Was
she in love with him?"

The last question was by no means out of the way; the
bookseller "thought she was," for he had seen them to-
gether, arm in arm, looking into shop windows.

"But that he, who was such a stidc, could fall in love!
It was incredible!"

"And what a husband he would make!" The proprietor
knew that he was devilish particular about his food, and
that, he said, was a mistake when one was married.

"And he l^es a glass of punch in the evening, and surely
a married man can't drink punch every evening of his life.
And he doesn't like children! It won't turn out well," he
whispered. "Take my word for it, it won't turn out well.
And, gentlemen, there's another thing," (he rose from his
seat, looked round and continued in a whisper), "I bdieve,
I'm hanged if I don't, that the old hypocrite has had a love
affair of some sort. Do you remember that incident, gen-
tlemen, with the — ^hihihi — sleeping suit? He's one of those
whom you don't find where you leave them! Take care,
Mrs. Blom! Mind what you are about! I'll say no morel''

It was certainly a fact that the schoolmaster was engaged
to be married and that the wedding was to take place within
two months.

What happened after, does not belong to this story,

74 COMPELLED TO

moreover, it is difficult to know what goes on behind the
convent walls of domesticity when the vow of silence is
being kept.

It was also a fact that the schoolmaster, after his mar-
iiage, was never again seen at a public house.

The bookseller, who met him by himself in the street one
evening, had to listen to a long exhortation on getting mar-
ried. The schoolmaster had inveighed against all bachelors;
he had called them egotists, who refused to do their duty by
the State; in his opinion they ought to be heavily taxed, for
all indirect taxes weighed most cruelly on the father of a
family. He went so far as to say that he wished to see
bachelorhood punished by the law of the land as a ''crime
against nature."

The bookseller had a good memory. He said that he
doubted the advisability of taking a jool into one's house,
permanently. But the schoolmaster replied that his wife
was the most intelligent woman he had ever met.

Two years after the wedding the Pole saw the school-
master and his wife in the theatre; he thought that they
looked happy; "ugh!"

Another tliree years went by. On a Midsummer day
the proprietor of tiiie restaurant made a pleasure trip on the
Lake of Malar to Mariafred. There, before Castle Crips-*
holm, he saw the sdioolmaster, pushing a perambulator over
a green field, and carrying in Ms disengaged hand a basket
containing food, while a whole crowd of yoimg men and
women, "who looked like coimtry folk," followed in the
rear. After dinner the sdioolmaster sang songs and turned
somersaults with the yoimgsters. He looked ten years
younger and had all the wa3rs of a ladies' man.

The proprietor, who was quite close to the party while
they were having dinner, overheard a little conversaticHi
between Mr. and Mrs. Blom. When the young wife took a
dish of crabs from the basket, she apologised to Albert, be-
cause she had not been able to buy a single female crab in
the whole market. Thereupon the schoolmaster put his
arm round her, kissed her and said that it didn't matter in
he 1 it, because male or female crabs, it was all the same
n. And when one of the babies in the perambulator

COMPELLED TO 7i

began to cry, the schoolmaster lifted it out and hushed it to
sleep again.

Well, all these things are mere details, but how people can
get married and bring up a family when they have not
enough for themselves while they are bachelors, is a riddle
to me. It almost looks as if babies brought their food with
them when they come into this world; it really almost does
look as if they did.

COMPENSATION

HE was considered a genius at College, and no one
doubted that he would one day distinguish himself.
But after passing his examinations, he was obliged to go
to Stockholm and look out for a berth. His dissertation,
which was to win him the doctor's degree, had to be post-
poned. As he was very ambitious, but had no private
means, he resolved to marry money, and with this object
in view, he visited only the very best families, both at
Upsala where he studied for the bar, and later on at Stock-
holm. At Upsala he always fraternised with the new ar-
rivals, that is to say, when they were members of aristo-
cratic families, and the freshers felt flattered by the ad-
vances made by the older man. In this way he formed
many useful ties, which meant invitations to his friends'
country houses during the simuner.

The country houses were his happy hunting groimd. He
possessed soda! talents, he could sing and play and amuse
the ladies, and consequently he was a great favourite. He
dressed beyond his means; but he never borrowed money
from any of his friends or aristocratic acquaintances. He
even went to the length of buying two worthless shares and
mentioning on every possible occasion that he had to at-
tend a General Meeting of the shareholders.

For two summers he had paid a great deal of attention to
a titled lady who owned some property, and his prospects
were the general topic, when he suddenly disappeared from
high life and became engaged to a poor girl, the daughter of
a cooper, who owned no property whatever.

His friends were puzzled and could not understand how
he could thus stand in his own light. He had laid his plans
so well, he had but to stretch out his hand and success was
in his grasp; he had the morsel firmly stuck on his fork, it
was oidy necessary for him to open his mouth and swallow
it. He himself was at a loss to understand how it was that

77

78 COMPENSATION

the face of a little girl whom he had met but once on a
steamer could have upset all his plans of many years'
standing. He was bewitched, obsessed.

He asked his friends whether they didn't think her beau-
tiful?

Frankly speaking they didn't.

"But she is so clever! Just look into her eyes! What
expressive eyes she has!"

His friends could see nothing and hear less, for the girl
never opened her lips.

But he spent evening after evening with the cooper's
family; to be sure, the cooper was a very intelligent man!
On his knees before her (a trick often practised at the coun-
try houses) he held her skeins of wool; he played and sang
to her, talked about religion and the drama, and he always
read acquiescence in her eyes. He wrote poetry about her,
and sacrificed at her shrine his laurels, his ambitious
dreams, even his dissertation.

And then he married her.

The cooper drank too much at the wedding and made
an improper speech about girls in general. But the son-in-
law found the old man so unsophisticated, so amiable, that
he egged him on instead of shutting him up. He felt at his
ease among these simple folk; in their midst he could be
quite himself.

"That's being in love," said his friends. "Love is a won-
derful thing."

And now they were married. One month — two months.
He was unspeakably happy. Every evening they spent to-
gether and he sang a song to her about the Rose in the
Wood, her favourite song. And he talked about religion
and the drama, and she sat and listened eagerly. But she
never expressed an opinion; she listened in silence and went
on with her crochet work.

In the third month he relapsed into his old habit of tak-
ing an afternoon nap. His wife, who hated being by herself,
insisted on sitting by him. It irritated him, for he felt an
overwhelming need to be alone with his thoughts.

Sometimes she met him on his way home from his office,
and her heart swelled with pride when he left his colleagues.

COMPENSATION 79

and crossed the street to join her. She took him home in
triumph: he was her husband!

In the fourth month he grew tired of her favourite song.
It was stale now! He took up a book and read, an(^either
of them spoke.

One evening he had to attend a meeting which was fol-
lowed by a banquet. It was his first night away from home.
He had persuaded his wife to invite a friend to spend the
evening with her, and to go to bed early, for he did not
expect to be home until late.

The friend came and stayed until nine o'clock. The
young wife sat in the drawing-room, waiting, for she was
determined not to go to bed until her husband had re-
turned. She felt too restless to go to sleep.

She sat alone in the drawing-room. What could she do
to make the time pass more quickly? The maid had gone
to bed; the grandfather's clock ticked and ticked. But it
was only ten o'clock when she put away her crochet work.
She fidgeted, moved the furniture about and felt a little
unstrung.

So that was what being married meant! One was torn
from one's early surroundings, and shut up in three solitary
rooms to wait until one's husband came home, half intoxi-
cated. — Nonsense! he loved her, and he was out on busi-
ness. She was a fool to forget that. But did he love her
still? Hadn't he refused" a day or two ago to hold a skein
of wool for her? — a thing he loved to do before they were
married. Didn't he look rather annoyed yesterday when
she met him before lunch? And — after all — if he had to
attend a business meeting to-night, there was no necessity
for him to be present at the banquet.

It was half-past ten when her musings had reached this
point. She was surprised that she hadn't thought of these
things before. She relapsed into her dark mood and the
dismal thoughts again passed through her mind, one by
one. But now reinforcements had arrived. He never
talked to her now! He never sang to her, never opened the
piano! He had told her a lie when he had said that he
couldn't do without his afternoon nap, for he was reading
French novels all the time.

8o COMPENSATION

He had told her a lie!

It was only half-past eleven. The silence was oppressive.
She opened the window and looked out into the street. Two
men were standing down below, bargaining with two women.
That was men's way! If he should ever do anything like
that! She should drown herself if he did.

She shut the window and lighted the chandelier in the
bedroom. "One ought to be able to see what one is about,"
he had once said to her on a certain occasion. — Everything
was still so bright and new! The green coverlet looked like
a mown lawn, and the little pillows reminded her of two
white kittens curled up on the grass. The polish of her
dressing-table reflected the light: the mirror had as yet
none of those ugly stains which are made by the splashing
of water. The silver on the back of her hair-brush, her
powder-box, her tooth-brush, all shone and sparkled. Her
bedroom slippers were still so new and pretty that it was
impossible to picture them down-at-heel. Everything looked
new, and yet everything seemed to have lost some of its
freshness. She knew all his songs, all his drawing-room
pieces, all his words, all his thoughts. She knew before-
hand what he would say when he sat down to limch, what
he would talk about when they were alone in the evening.

She was sick of it all. Had she been in love with hun?
Oh, yesl Certainly! But was this all then? Was she
realising all the dreams of her girlhood? Were things to
go on like this until she died? Yesl But — ^but — but —
surely they would have children! though there was no sign
of it as yet. Then she would no longer be alone! Then he
might go out as often as he liked, for she would alwa3rs have
somebody to talk to, to play with. Perhaps it was a baby
which she wanted to make her happy. Perhaps matrimony
really meant something more than being a man's legitimate
mistress. That must be it! But then, he would have to
love her, and he didn't do that. And she began to cry.

When her husband came home at one o'clock, he was
quite sober. But he was almost angry with her when he
found her still up.

"Why didn't you go to bed?" were the words with which
he greeted her.

COMPENSATION 8i

"How can I go to sleep when I am waiting for you?^'

"A fine look out for mel Am I never to go out then? I
believe you have been crying, too?"

"Yes, I have, and how can I help it if you — don't — ^iove
— ^me — any — more?"

"Do you mean to say I don't love you because I had to
go out on business?"

"A banquet isn't business I"

"Good God! Am I not to be allowed to go out? How
can women be so obtrusive?"

"Obtrusive? Yes, I noticed that yesterday, when I met
you. Ill never meet you again."

"But, darling, I was with my chief — "

"Huhuhul"

She burst into tears, her body moved convulsively.

He had to call the maid and ask her to fetch die hot-
water bottle.

He, too, was weeping. Scalding tears! He wept over
himself, his hardness of heart, his wickedness, his illusions
over everything.

Surely his love for her wasn't an illusion? He did love
herl Didn't he? And she said she loved him, too, as he
was kneeling before her prostrate figure, kissing her eyes.
Yes, they loved one another! It was merely a dark cloud
which had passed, now. Ugly thoughts, bom of solitude
and loneliness. She would never, never again stay alone.
They fell asleep in each other's arms, her face dimpled
with smiles.

But she did not go to meet him on the following day.
He asked no questions at lunch. He talked a lot, but more
for the sake of talking than to amuse her; it seemed as if
he were talking to himself.

In the evening he entertained her with long descriptions
of the life at Castle Sjostaholm; he mimicked the young
UkDes talking to the Baron, and told her the names of the
Count's horses. And on the following day he mentioned his
dissertation.

One afternoon he came home very tired. She was sitting
in the drawing-room, waiting for him. Her ball of cotton
had fallen on the floor. In passing, his foot got entangled

S2 COMPENSATION

in the cotton; at his next step he pulled her crochet work
out of her hand and dragged it along; then he lost his
temper and kicked it aside.

She exclaimed at his rudeness.

He retorted that he had no time to bother about her rub-
bish, and advised her to spend her time more profitably.
He had to think of his dissertation, if he was to have a
career at all. And she ought to consider the question of
how to limit their household expenses.

Things had gone far indeed!

On the next day the young wife, her eyes swollen with
weeping, was knitting socks for her husband. He told her
he could buy them cheaper ready-made. She burst into
tears. What was she to do? The maid did all the work of
the house, there was not enough work in the kitchen for
two. She always dusted the rooms. Did he want her to
send the maid away?

"No, no!"

"What did he want, then?"

He didn't know himself, but he was sure that something
was wrong. Their expenses were too high. That was all.
They couldn't go on living at their present rate, and then —
somehow he could never find time to work at his disserta-
tion.

Tears, kisses, and a grand reconciliation! But now
he started staying away from home in the evening several
times a week. Business! A man must show himself 1
If he stays at home, he will be overlooked and for«
gotten!

A year had passed; there were no signs of the arrival of
a baby. "How like a little liaison I once had in the old
days," he thought; "there is only one difference: this one
is duller and costs more." There was no more conversa-
tion, now; they merely talked of household matters. '^She
has no brain," he thought. "I am listening to myself when
I am talking to her, and the apparent depths of her eyes
is a delusion, due to the size of her pupils — the unusnial
size of her pupils. — "

He taik^ openly about his former love for her as of
fiomething that was over and done with. And yet, when-«

COMPENSATION 83

ever he did so, he felt a pain in his heart, an irritating, cruel
pain, a remorseless pain that could never die.

"Everything on earth withers and dies," he mused, "why
should her favourite song alone be an exception to this?
When one has heard it three himdred and sixty-five times, it
becomes stale; it can't be helped. But is my wife right
when she says that our love, also, has died? No, and yet —
perhaps she is. Our marriage is no better than a vulgar
liaison, for we have no child."

One day he made up his mind to talk the matter over
with a married friend, for were they not both members of
the "Order of the Married"?

"How long have you been married?"

"Six years."

"And does matrimony bore you?"

"At first it did; but when the children came, matters
improved."

"Was that so? It's strange that we have no child."

"Not your fault, old man I Tell your wife to go and
see a doctor about it."

He had an intimate conversation with her and she went.

Six weeks after what a change 1

What a bustle and commotion in the house! The draw-
ing-room table was littered with baby-dothes which were
quickly hidden if anybody entered unexpectedly, and rea^
peared as quickly if it was only he who had come in. A
name had to be thought of. It would surely be a boy. The
midwife had to be interviewed, medical books had to be
bcraighty and a cradle and a baby's outfit.

The baby arrived and it really was a boyi And when he
saw the "little monkey that smelled of butter" clasped to
her bosom, which untQ then had but been his plaything, he
reverently discovered the mother in his little wife; and
when he saw the big pupils looking at the baby so intently
that they seemed to be looking into the future, he realised
that there were depths in her eyes after all; depths more
profound than he could fathom for all his drama and re-
ligion. And now all his old love, his dear old love, burst
into fresh flames, and there was something new added to
it, which he had dimly divined, but never realised.

84 COMPENSATION

How beautiful she was when she busied herself about the
house again! And how intelligent in all matters concerning
the baby!

As for him, he felt a man. Instead of talking of the
Baron's horses and the Count's cricket matches, he now
talked, too much almost, of his son.

And when occasionally he was obliged to be out of an
evening, he always longed for his own fireside; not because
his wife sat there waiting for him, like an evil conscience,
but because he knew that she was not alone. And when he
came home, both mother and child were asleq). He was
almost jealous of the baby, for there had been a certain
charm in the thought that while he was out, somebody was
sitting alone at home, eagerly awaiting his return.

Now he was allowed his afternoon nap. And as soon as
he had gone back to town, the piano was opened and the
favourite song of the Rose in the Wood was sung, for it was
quite new to Harold, and had regained all its freshness for
poor little Laura who hadn't heard it for so many da3rs.

She had no time now for crochet work, but there were
plenty of antimacassars in the house. He, on his part,
could not spare the time for his dissertation.

^^Harold shall write it," said the father, for he knew now
that his life would not be over when he came to die.

Many an evening they sat together, as before, and gos-
sipped, but now both took a share in the conversaticm, for
now she understood what they were talking about.

She confessed that she was a silly girl who knew nothing
about religion and the drama; but ^e said that she had
always told him so, and that he had refused to believe it.

But now he believed it less than ever.

They sang the old favourite song, and Harold crowed,
they danced to the tune and rocked tlie baby's cradle to it,
and the song always retained its freshness luid chann.

FRICTIONS

HIS eyes had been opened. He realised the perversity
of the world, but he lacked the power to penetrate the
darkness and discover the cause of this perversity; there-
fore he gave himself up to despair, a disillusioned man.
Then he fell in love with a girl who married somebody else.
He complained of her conduct to his friends, male and
female, but they only laughed at him. For a little whfle
longer he trod his solitary path alone and misimderstood.
He belonged to "society," and joined in its pursuits, be-
cause it distracted him; but at die bottom of his heart he
had nothing but contempt for its amusements, which he
took no pains to conceal.

One evening he was present at a ball. He danced with
a young woman of unusual beauty and animation. When
the band ceased playing, he remained standing by her side.
He knew he ought to talk to her but he did not know what
to say. After a while the girl broke the silence.

''You are fond of dancing. Baron?" she said with a cold
smile.

"Oh no! not at all," he answered. "Are you?"

"I can't imagine anything more foolish," she replied.

He had met his man, or rather his woman.

"Why do you dance, then?" he asked.

"For the same reason that you do."

"Can you read my mind?"

"Easily enough; if two people think alike, the other
always faiows."

"H'm! You're a strange woman! Do you believe in
love?"

"No!"

"Nor do I! You and I ought to get married."

"I'm beginning to think so myself."

"Would you marry me?"

"Why not? At any rate, we shouldn't fight."

85

^ FRICTIONS

"Horrible idea! But how can you be so sure?"

"Because we think alike."

"Yes, but that might become monotonous. We should
have nothing to talk about, because the one would always
know what the other is thinking."

"True; but wouldn't it be even more monotonous if we
remained unmarried and misimderstood?"

"You are right! Would you like to think it over?"

"Yes, until the cotillon."

"No longer?"

"Why any longer?"

He took her back to the drawing-room and left her there,
drank several glasses of champagne and watched her during
supper. She allowed two young members of the Diplo-
matic Corps to wait on her, but made fun of them all the
time and treated them as if they were footmen.

As soon as the cotillon began, he went to her and offered
her a bouquet.

"Do you accept me?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied.

And so they were engaged.

It's a splendid match, said the world. They are made
for one another. They are equals as far as social position
and money are concerned. They hold the same blasi views
of life. By blase the world meant that they cared very little
for dances, theatres, bazaars, and other noble sports without
which life is not really worth living.

They were like carefully wiped twin slates, exactly alike;
but utterly unable to surmise whether or not life would
write the same legend on both. They never asked one an-
other during the tender moments of their engagement: Do
you love me? They knew quite well that it was impossible,
because they did not believe in love. They talked little,
but they understood one another perfectly.

And they married.

He was always attentive, always polite, and they were
good friends.

When the baby was born, it had but one effect on their
relationship; they had something to talk about now.

But by- and- by the husband began to reveal a certain

FRICTIONS 87

energy. He had a sense of duty, and moreover, he was sick
of being idle. He had a private income, but was in no way
connected with politics or the Government. Now he
looked roimd for some occupation which would fill the void
in his life. He had heard the first morning call of the
awakening spirits and felt it his duty to do his share of the
great work of research into the causes of human misery.
He read much, made a careful study of politics and eventu-
ally wrote an article and sent it to a paper. The conse-
quence was that he was elected a member of the Board of
Education. This necessitated hard reading in future, for
all questions were to be threshed out thoroughly.

The Baroness lay on the sofa and read Chateaubriand
and Musset. She had no faith in the improvement of hu-
manity, and this stirring up of the dust and mould which
the centuries had deposited on human institutions irritated
her. Yet she noticed that she did not keep pace with her
husband. They were like two horses at a race. They had
been weighed before the start and been found to be of the
same weight; they had promised to keep side by side during
the run; everything was calculated to make them finish the
race and leave the course at the same time. But already the
husband had gained by the length of a neck. Unless she
hurried up, she was bound to be left behind.

And the latter really happened. In the following year
he was made controller of the budget. He was away for
two months. His absence made the Baroness realise that
she loved him; a fact which was brought home to her by
her fear of losing him.

When he returned home, she was all eagerness; but his
mind was filled with the things he had seen and heard
abroad. He realised that they had come to the parting of
the ways, but he would have liked to delay it, prevent it, if
possible. He showed her in great living pictures the func-
tioning of the colossal gigantic machinery of the State, he
tried to explain to her the working of the wheels, the multi-
farious transmissions, regulators and detents, unreliable
pendulums and untrustworthy safety valves.

She was interested at first, but after a while her interest
waned. Conscious of her mental inferiority, her insignifi-

88 FRICTIONS

cance, she devoted herself entirely to her baby, anxious to
demonstrate to her husband that she yet had a value as a
model mother. But her husband did not appreciate this
value. He had married her for the sake of companionship,
and he found in her an excellent nurse for his child. But
how could it be helped now? Who could have foreseen
such a thing?

The house was always full of members of Parliament,
and politics was the subject of conversation at dinner. The
hostess merely took care that no fault could be found with
the cooking. The Baron never omitted to have one or two
men amongst his guests who could talk to his wife about
music and the drama, but the Baroness wanted to discuss
nothing but the nursery and the bringing up of children.
After dessert, as soon as the health of the hostess was
drunk, there was a general stampede to the smoking-room
where the political discussions were continued. The Bar-
oness left her guests and went to the nursery with a feeling
of bitterness in her heart; she realised that her husband
had so far outdistanced her that she could never again hope
to come up with him.

He worked much at home in the evening; frequently he
was busy at his writing-table until the small hours of the
morning, but always behind locked doors. When he no-
ticed afterwards, as he sometimes did, that his wife went
about with red eyes, he felt a pain in his heart; but they
had nothing to say to each other.

Occasionally however, at those times when his work
palled, when he realised that his inner life was growing
poorer and piborer, he felt a void within him, a longing for
warmth, for someUiing intimate, something he had dreamed
of long ago, in the early days of his youth. But every
feeling of that sort he suppressed at once as unfaithfulness
to his wife, for he had a very high conception of the duty
of a husband.

To bring a little more variety into her daily life, he sug-
gested one day that she should invite a cousin of whom she
had often spoken, but whom he had never seen, to spend the
winter with them in town.

This had always been a great wish of the Baroness's, but

FRICTIONS 89

now that the realisation of it was within her power, she
changed her mind. She did not want her in the least now.
Her husband pressed her for reasons, but she could not give
him any. It roused his curiosity and finally she confe^ed
that she was afraid of her cousin; afraid that she might
win his heart, that he might fall in love with her.

"She must be a queer girl, we really must have her
here!"

The Baroness wept and warned, but the Baron laughed
and the cousin arrived.

One afternoon the Baron came home, tired as usual; he
had forgotten all about the cousin and his curiosity in re-
gard to her. They sat down to dinner. The Baron asked
the cousin if she was fond of the theatre. She replied that
she was not. She preferred reality to make-believe. At
home she had founded a school for black sheep and a society
for the care of discharged prisoners. Indeed! The Baron
was much interested in the administration of prisons. The
cousin was able to give him a good deal of information, and
during the rest of the dinner the conversation was ex-
clusively about prisons. Eventually the cousin promised to
treat the whole question in a paper which the Baron was
going to read and work up.

What the Baroness had foreseen, happened. The Baron
contracted a spiritual marriage with the cousin, and his wife
was left out in the cold. But the cousin was also beautiful,
and when shejeaned over the Baron at his writing-desk, and
he felt her soft arm on his shoulder and her warm breath
against his cheek, he could not suppress a sensation of su-
preme well-being. Needless to say, their conversation was
not always of prisons. They also discussed love. She be-
lieved in the love of the souls, and she stated as plainly as
she could, that marriage without love was prostitution. The
Baron had not taken much interest in the development of
modem ideas on love, and found that her views on the sub-
ject were rather hard, but after all she was probably quite
right.

But the cousin possessed other qualities, too, invaluable
qualifications for a true spiritual marriage. She had no
objection to tobacco smoke for instance, in fact, she was

V

90 FRICTIONS

very fond of a cigarette herself. There was no reason,
therefore, why she should not go into the smoking-room
with the men after dinner and talk about politics. And
then she was charming.

Tortured by little twinges of conscience, the Baron would
every now and then disappear from the smoking-room, go
into the nursery, kiss his wife and child, and ask her how
she was getting on? The Baroness was grateful, but she
was not happy. After these little journeys the Baron al-
ways returned to his friends in the best of tempers; one
might have thought that he had faithfully performed a
sacred duty. At other times it irritated and distressed him
that his wife did not join the party in the smoking-room,
too, as his wife; this ^bought was a burden which weighed
quite heavily on him.

The cousin did not go home in the spring, but accom-
panied the couple to a watering-place. There she organised
little performances for the benefit of the poor, in which she
and the Baron played the parts of the lovers. This had the
inevitable result that the fire burst into flames. But the
flames were only spiritual flames; mutual interests, like
views, and, perhaps, similar dispositions.

The Baroness had ample time to consider her position.
The day arrived when she told her husband that since
everything was over between them, the only decent thing
to do was to part. But that was more than he had bar-
gained for; he was miserable; the cousin had better return
to her parents, and he would prove to his wife that he was
a man of honour.

The cousin left. A correspondence between her and the
Baron began. He made the Baroness read every letter,
however much she hated doing it. After a while, however,
he gave in and read the letters without showing them to his
wife.

Finally the cousin returned. Then matters came to a
crisis. The Baron discovered that he could not live with-
out her.

What were they to do? Separate? It would be death.
Go on as at present? Impossible! Annul the marriage
which the Baron had come to look upon as legal prostitution

FRICTIONS 9^

and marry his beloved? However painful it might be, it
was the only honest course to take.

But that was against the wishes of the cousin. She did
not want it said of her that she had stolen another woman's
husband. And then the scandal! the scandal!

"But it was dishonest not to tell his wife everything; it
was dishonest to allow things to go on; one could never tell
how the matter would end."

"What did he mean? How could it end?"

"Nobody could tell!"

"Oh! How dared he! What did he think of her?"

"That she was a woman!"

And he fell on his knees and worshipped her; he said
that he did not care if the administration of prisons and the
school for black sheep went to the devil; he did not know
what manner of woman she was; he only knew that he loved
her.

She replied that she had nothing but contempt for him^
and went helter skelter to Paris. He followed at her heels.
At Hamburg he wrote a letter to his wife in which he said
that they had made a mistake and that it was immoral not
to rectify it. He asked her to divorce him.

And she divorced him.

A year after these events the Baron and the cousin were
married. They had a child. But that was a fact which did
not interfere with their happiness. On the contrary! What
a wealth of new ideas germinated in their minds in their
voluntary exile! How strong were the winds which blew
here!

He encouraged her to write a book on "yoimg criminals."
The press tore it to pieces. She was furious and swore that
she would never write another book. He asked her whether
she wrote for praise, whether she was ambitious? — She re-
plied by a question: Why did he write? — ^A little quarrel
arose. He said it was refreshing to hear her express views
which did not echo his own — always his own. — Always his
own? What did he mean? Didn't she have views of her
own? She henceforth made it her business to prove to him
on every occasion that she was capable of forming her own
opinions; and to prevent any errors on his part she to<

92 ^ FRICTIONS

good care that they always differed from his. He told her
he did not care what views she held as long as she loved
him. — ^Lovc? What about it? He was no better than
other men and, moreover, he had betrayed her. He did
not love her soul, but her body. — No, he loved both, he
loved her, every bit of her! — Oh I How deceitful he had
been! — No, he had not been deceitful, he had merely
deceived himself when he believed that he loved her sotd
only.

They were tired of strolling up and down the boulevard,
and sat down before a caf6. She lighted a cigarette. A
waiter requested her rather uncivilly, not to smoke. The
Baron demanded an explanation and the waiter said that
the cafe was a first-class establishment and the manage-
ment was anxious not to drive away respectable people by
serving these ladies. They rose from their seats, paid and
went away. The Baron was furious, the young Baroness
had tears in her eyes.

"There they had a demonstration of the power of preju-
dice! Smoking was a foolish act as far as a man was con-
cerned, but in a woman it was a crime! Let him who was
able to do so, destroy this prejudice! Or, let us say, him
who would care to do so! The Baron had no wish that his
wife should be the first victim, even if it were to win for
her the doubtful honour of having cast aside a prejudice.
For it was nothing else. In Russia, ladies belonging to the
best society smoked at the dinner-table during the courses.
Customs dbanged with the latitudes. And yet those trifles
were not without importance, for life consisted of trifles. If
men and women shared bad habits, intercourse between
them would be less stiff and formal: they would make
friends more easily and keep pace with one another. If
they had the same education, they would have the same in-
terests, and cling together more closely during the whole
of their lives."

The Baron was silent as if he had said something foolish.
But she had not been listening to him; her thoughts had
been far away.

"She had been insulted by a waiter, told that she was not
fit to associate with respectable people. There was more

FRICTIONS 93

behind that, than appeared on the surface. She had been
recognised. Yes, she was sure of it, it was not the first time
that she had noticed it."

"What had she noticed?"

"That she had been treated with little respect at the
restaurants. The people evidently did not think that they
were married; because they were affectionate and civil to
one another. She had borne it in silence for a long time, but
now she had come to the end of her tether. And yet this
was nothing compared to what they were saying at home!"

"Well, what were they saying? And why had she never
told him anything about it before?"

"Oh! horrible things! The letters she had received!
Leaving the anon3maous ones quite out of the question.

"Well, and what about him? Was he not being treated
as if he were a criminal? And yet he had not committed
a crime! He had acted according to all legal requirements,
he had not broken his marriage vows. He had left the
coimtry in compliance with the dictates of the law; the
Royal Consistory has granted his appeal for a divorce; the
clergy. Holy Church, had given him his release from the
bonds of his first marriage on stamped paper; therefore he
had not broken them! When a country was conquered, a
whole nation was absolved from its oath of loyalty to its
monarch; why did society look askance at the release from
a promise? Had it not conferred the right on the Con-
sistory to dissolve a marriage? How could it dare to as-
sume the character of a judge now and condemn its own
laws? Society was at war with itself! He was being
treated like a criminal! Hadn't the secretary of the Em-
bassy, his old friend, on whom he had left his and his wife's
cards, acknowledged them by simply returning one card
only? And was he not overlooked at all public functions?"

"Oh! She had had to put up with worse things! One
of her friends in Paris had closed her door to her, and sev-
eral had cut her in the street."

"Only the wearer of a boot knew where it pinched. The
boots which they were wearing now were real Spanish boots,
and they were at war with society. The upper classes had
cut them. The upper classes! This community of semi-

94 FRICTIONS

imbeciles, who secretly lived like dogs, but showed one
another respect as long as there was no public scandal; that
was to say as long as one did not honestly revoke an agree-
ment and wait until it had lapsed before one made use of
one's newly-regained freedom! And these vicious upper
classes were the awarders of social position and respect,
according to a scale on which honesty ranked far below
zero. Society was nothing but a tissue of lies! It was
inexplicable that it hadn't been found out long ago! It was
high time to examine this fine structure and inquire into the
condition of its foundations."

They were on friendlier terms on arriving home than
they had been for many years. The Baroness stayed at
home with her baby, and was soon expecting a second one.
This struggle against the tide was too hard for her, and she
was already growing tired of it. She was tired of every-,
thing! To write in an elegantly furnished, well-heated room
on the subject of discharged prisoners, offering them, at a
proper distance, a well-gloved hand, was a proceeding soci-
ety approved of; but to hold out the hand of friendship
to a woman who had married a legally divorced man was
quite another thing. Why should it be so? It was difficult
to find an answer.

The Baron fought in the thick of the battle. He visited
the Chamber of Deputies, was present at meetings, and
everywhere he listened to passionate diatribes against so-
ciety. He read papers and magazines, kept a keen eye on
literature, studied the subject deeply. His wife was threat-
ened by the same fate which had overtaken the first one;
to be left behind! It was strange. She seemed imable to
take in all the details of his investigations, she disapproved
of much of the new doctrine, but she felt that he was right
and fighting for a good cause. He knew that he could al-
ways count on her never-flagging S3mapathy; that he had a
friend at home who would always stand by him. Their coni-
mon fate drove them into each other's arms like frightened
birds at the approach of a storm. All the womanliness in
her, — ^however little it may be appreciated now-a-days, —
which is after all nothing but a memory of the great mother,
the force of nature which is woman's endowment, was

FRICTIONS 95

roused. It fell on the children like the warm glow of a fire
at eventide; it fell on the husband like a ray of sunshine;
it brought peace to the home. He often wondered how it
was that he did not miss his old comrade, with whom he
was wont to discuss everything; he discovered that his
thoughts had gained force and vigour since he stopped
pouring them out as soon as he conceived them; it seemed
to him that he was profiting more by the silent approval,
the kindly nod, the unwavering S3mapathy. He felt that his
strength had increased, that his views were less under out-
side control; he was a solitary man, now, and yet he was
less solitary than he had been in the past, for he was no
longer constantly met by contradictions which merely filled
his heart with misgivings.

It was Qiristmas Eve in Paris. A large Christmas tree,
grown in the wood of St. Germain, stood in their little chalet
on the Cours de la Reine. They were going out after
breakfast to buy Christmas presents for the children. The
Baron was pre-occupied, for he had just published a little
pamphlet, entitled: "Do the Upper Classes constitute So-
ciety?" They were sitting at breakfast in their cosy dining-
room, and the doors which led to the nursery stood wide
open. They listened to the nurse playing with the children,
and the Baroness smiled with contentment and happiness.
She had grown very gentle and her happiness was a quiet
one. One of the children suddenly screamed and she rose
from the table to see what was the matter. At the same
moment the footman came into the dining-room with the
morning post. The Baron opened two packets of printed
matter. The first was a "big respectable" newspaper. He
opened it and his eyes fell on a headline in fat t3^e: "A
Blasphemer!"

He began to read: "Christmas is upon us again! This
festival dear to all pure hearts, this festival sacred to all
Christian nations, which has brought a message of peace
and good-will to all men, which makes even the murderer
sheatfie his knife, and the thief respect the sacred law of
property; this festival, which is not only of veiy ancient
origin, but which is also, e^ecially in the countries of the

96 FRICTIONS

North, surrounded by a host of historic associations, etc., etc.
And then like foul fumes arising from a drain, an individual
suddenly confronts us who does not scruple to tear asunder
the most sacred bonds, who vomits malice on all respectable
members of society; malice, dictated by the pettiest venge-
ance. ..." He refolded the paper and put it into the
pocket of his dressing-gown. Then he opened the second
parcel. It contained caricatures of himself and his wife.
It went the same way as the first, but he had to be quick,
for his wife was re-entering the dining-room. He finished
his breakfast and went into his bed-room to get ready to
go out. They left the house together.

The sunlight fell on the frosted plane-trees of the Champs
Elysees, and in the heart of the stony desert the Place de la
Concorde opened out like a large oasis. He felt her arm on
his, and yet he had the feeling as if she were supporting
him. She talked of the presents which they were going to
buy for the children, and he tried to force himself to take
an interest in the subject. But all at once he interrupted
her conversation and asked her, i-propos of nothing:

"Do you know the difference between vengeance and pim-
ishment?"

"No, IVe never thought about it."

"I wonder whether it isn't this: When an anonymous
journalist revenges himself, it is punishment; but when a
well-known writer, who is not a pressn\an, fights with an
open visor, meting out punishment, then it is revenge I Let
us join the new prophets!"

She begged him not to spoil Christmas by talking of the
newspapers.

"This festival," he muttered, "on which peace and good-
will. ..."

They passed through the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli,
turned into the boulevards and made their purchases. They
dined at tihe Grand Hotel. She was in a simny frame of
mind and tried to cheer him up. But he remained pre-
occupied. Suddenly he asked,

"How is it possible that one can have a bad conscience
when one has acted rightly?"

She did not know.

FRICTIONS 97

''Is it because the upper classes have so trained us, that
our conscience troubles us whenever we rebel against Aem?
Probably it is so. Why shouldn't he who has been hurt
imjustly, have the right to attack injustice? Because only
he who has been hurt will attack, and the upper classes hate
being attacked. Why did I not strike at tibe upper classes
in the past, when I belonged to them? Because, of course,
I didn't know them then. One must look at a picture from
a distance in order to find the correct visual point! "

''One shouldn't talk about such things on Christmas
Eve! "

"True, it is Christmas. This festival of . . ."

They returned home. They lit the candles on the Christ-
mas tree; it radiated peace and happiness; but its dark
branches smelt of a funeral and looked sinister, like the
Baron's face. The nurse came in with the little ones. His
face lighted up, for, he thought, when they are grown up
they will reap in joy what we have sown in tears; then their
conscience will only trouble them when they have sinned
against the laws of nature; they won't have to suffer from
whims which have been caned into us at school, drununed
into us by the parsons, invented by the upper classes for
their own benefit.

The Baroness sat down at the piano when the maids and
the footmen entered. She played melancholy old dances,
dear to the heart of the people of the North, while the
servants danced gravely with the children. It was very
much like the penitential part of divine service.

After that the presents were distributed among the chil-
dren, and the servants received their gifts. And then the
children were put to bed.

The Baroness went into the drawing-room and sat down
in an arm-chair. The Baron threw himself on a footstool
at her feet. He rested his head on her knees. It was so
heavy — so heavy. She silently stroked his forehead.

"What! was he weeping?"

"Yes!"

She had never before seen a man weep. It was a terrible
sight. His big strong frame shook, but he made no sound.

"Why was he weeping?"

98 FRICTIONS

"Because he was unhappy."

"Unhappy with her?"

"No, no, not with her, but still, unhappy."

"Had anybody treated him badly?"

"Yes!"

"Couldn't he tell her all about it?"

"No, he only wanted to sit at her knees, as he used to sit;
long ago, at his mother's."

She talked to him as if he had been a child. She kissed
his eyes and wiped his face with her handkerchief. She felt
so proud, so strong, there were no tears in her eyes. The
sight of her inspired him with new courage.

"How weak he had been! That he should have found
the machine-made attacks of his opponents so hard to
bear! Did his enemies really believe what they said?"

"Terrible thought! Probably they did. One often found
stones firmly grown into pine-trees, why should not opinions
grow into the brain in the same way? But she believed in
him, she knew that he was fighting for a good cause?"

"Yes, she believed it! But — ^he must not be angry with
her for asking him such a question — ^but — did he not miss
his child, the first one?"

"Yes, certainly, but it could not be helped. At least, not
yet! But he and the others who were working for the
future would have to find a remedy for that, too. He did
not know, yet, what form that remedy would take, but
stronger brains than his, and many together, would surely
one day solve this problem which at present seemed in-
solvable."

"Yes, she hoped it would be so."

"But their marriage? Was it a marriage in the true
sense of the word, seeing that he couldn't tell her what
troubled him? Wasn't it, too, pro . . .?"

"No, it was a true marriage, for they loved one another.
There had been no love between him and his first wife.
But he and she did love one another, could she deny it?"

"She couldn't, he was her dear love."

Then their marriage was a true marriage before God and
before Nature.

UNNATURAL SELECTION OR THE

ORIGIN OF RACE

THE Baron had read in The Slaves of Life with disgust
and indignation that the children of the aristocracy
were bound to perish unless they took the mothers' milk
from the children of the lower classes. He had read Dar-
win and believed that the gist of his teaching was that
through selection the children of the aristocracy had come
to be more highly developed representatives of the genus
"Man." But tiie doctrine of heredity made him look upon
the employment of a foster-mother with aversion; for might
not, with the blood of the lower classes, certain concep-
tions, ideas and desires be introduced and propagated in
the aristocratic nursling? He was therefore determined
that his wife should nurse her baby herself, and if she
should prove incapable of doing so, the child should be
brought up with the bottle. He had a right to the cows'
milk, for they fed on his hay; without it they would starve,
or would not have come into existence at all.

The baby was born. It was a son I The father had
been somewhat anxious before he became certain of his
wife's condition, for he was, personally, a poor man; his
wife, on the other hand, was very wealthy, but he had no
claim to her fortune unless their union was blest with a
legal heir, (in accordance with the law of entail chap, oo
par. oo). His joy was therefore great and genuine. The
baby was a transparent little thoroughbred, with blue veins
shining through his waxen skin. Nevertheless his blood
was poor. His mother who possessed the figure of an angel,
was brought up on choice food, protected by rich furs from
all the eccentricities of the climate, and had that aristocratic
pallor which denotes the woman of noble descent.

She nursed the baby herself. There was consequently
no need to become indebted to peasant women for the privi-
lege of enjoying life on this planet. Nothing but fables,

99

loo UNNATURAL SELECTION

all he had read about it! The baby sucked and screamed
for a fortnight. But all babies scream. It meant nothing.
But it lost flesh. It became terribly emaciated. The doctor
was sent for. He had a private conversation with the
father, during which he declared that the baby would die
if the Baroness continued to nurse him, because she was
firstly too highly strung, and secondly had nothing witibi
which to feed hun. He took the trouble to make a quan-
titative analysis of the milk, and proved (by equations)
that the child was boimd to starve unless there was a
change in the method of his feeding.

What was to be done? On no account could the baby
be allowed to die. Bottle or foster mother? The latter
was out of the question. Let us try the bottle! The doc-
tor, however, prescribed a foster mother

The best Dutch cow, which had received the gold medal
for the district, was isolated and fed with hay; with dry
hay of the finest quality. The doctor analysed the milk,
everything was all right. How simple the system was!
How strange that they had not thought of it before!
After all, one need not engage a foster mother a tyrant
before whom one had to cringe, a loafer one had to fatten;
not to mention the fact that she might have an infectious
disease.

But the baby continued to lose flesh and to scream. It
screamed night and day. There was no doubt it suffered
from colic. A new cow was prociwed and a fresh analysis
made. The milk was mixed with Karlsbad water, genuine
Sprudel, but the baby went on screaming.

"There's no remedy but to engage a foster mother," said
the doctor.

"Ctti! anything but that! One did not want to rob
other children, it was against nature, and, moreover, Yrbat
about heredity?"

When the Baron began to talk of things natural and
unnatural, the doctor explained to him that if nature were
allowed her own way, all noble families would die out and
their estates fall to the crown. This was the wisdom of
nature, and human civilization was nothing but a foolish
struggle against nature, in which man was bound to be

UNNATURAL SELECTION lox

beaten. The Baron's race was doomed; this was proved by
the fact that his wife was unable to feed the fruit of her
womb; in order to live they were boimd to buy or steal
the milk of other women. Consequently the race lived on
robbery, down to the smallest detail.

"Could the purchase of the milk be called robbery? The
purchase of it!"

"Yes, because the money with which it was bought was
produced by labour. Whose labour? The people's I For
the aristocracy didn't work."

"The doctor was a socialist!"

"No, a follower of Darwin. However, he didn't care
in the least if they called him a socialist. It made no
difference to him."

"But surely, purchase was not robbery! That was too
strong a word!"

"Well, but if one paid with money one hadn't earned!"

"That was to say, earned by manual labour?"

"Yes!"

"But in that case the doctor was a robber too!"

"Quite so! Nevertheless he would not hold back with
the truth! Didn't the Baron remember the repenting thief
who had spoken such true words?"

The conversation was interrupted; the Baron sent for
a famous professor.

The latter called him a murderer straight out, because
he had not engaged a nurse long ago.

The Baron had to persuade his wife. He had to re-
tract all his former arguments and emphasize the one sim-
ple fact, namely, the love for his child, (regulated by the
law of entail).

But where was a foster mother to come from? It was
no use thinking of looking for one in town, for there all
people were corrupt. No, it would have to be a country
girl. But the Baroness objected to a girl because, she
argued, a girl with a baby was an immoral person; and
her son mi^t contract a hereditary tendency.

The doctor retorted that all fostermothers were unmar-
ried women and that if the yoimg Baron inherited from
her a preference for the other sex, he would grow into

102 UNNATURAL SELECTION

a good fellow; tendencies of that sort ought to be encour-
aged. It was not likely that any of the farmers' wives
would accept the position, because a farmer who owned
land, would certainly prefer to keep his wife and children
with him.

"But supposing they married a girl to a farm la-
bourer?"

"It would mean a delay of nine months."

"But supposing they found a husband for a girl who
had a baby?"

"That wasn't a bad ideal"

The Baron knew a girl who had a baby just three months
old. He knew her only too well, for he had been en-
gaged for three years and had been unfaithful to his fiancee
by "doctor's orders." He went to her himself and made
his suggestion. She should have a farm of her own if
she would consent to marry Anders, a farm labourer, and
come to the Manor as foster mother to the young Baron.
Well, was it strange that she should accept the proffered
settlement in preference to her bearing her disgrace alone?
It was arranged there and then that on the following Sun-
day the banns should be read for the first, second and third
time, and that Anders should go home to his own village
for two months.

The Baron looked at her baby with a strange feeling
of envy. He was a big, strong boy. He was not beauti-
ful, but he looked like a guarantee of many generations
to come. The child was bwn to live but it was not his
fate to fulfil his destination.

Anna wept when he was taken to the orphanage, but
the good food at the Manor (her dinner was sent up to
her from the dining-room, and she had as much porter
and wine as she wanted) consoled her. She was also
allowed to go out driving in the big carriage, with a foot-
man by the side of the coachman. And she read A Thou-
sand and One Nights, Never in all her life had she been
so well off.

After an absence of two months Anders returned. He
had done nothing but eat, drink, and rest. He took pos-
session of the farm, but he also wanted his Anna. Couldn't

UNNATURAL SELECTION 103;

she, at least, come and see him sometimes? No, the
Baroness objected. No nonsense of that sort!

Anna lost flesh and the little Baron screamed. The doc-
tor was consulted.

"Let her go and see her husband," he said.

"But supposing it did the baby harm?"

"It won't!" ,

But Anders must be "analysed" first. Anders objected.
Anders received a present of a few sheep and was
"analysed."

The little Baron stopped screaming.

But now news came from the orphanage that Anna's
boy had died of diphtheria.

Anna fretted, and the little Baron screamed louder than
ever. She was discharged and sent back to Anders and
a new foster mother was engaged.

Anders was glad to have his wife with him at last, but
she had contracted expensive habits. She couldn't drink
Brazilian coffee, for instance, it had to be Java. And her
health did not permit her to eat fish six times a week, nor
could she work in the fields. Food at the farm grew
scarce.

Anders would have been obliged to give up the farm
after twelve months, but the Baron had a kindly feeling'
for him and allowed him to stay on as a tenant.

Anna worked daily at the Manor and frequently saw the
little Baron; but he did not recognise her and it was just
as well that he did not. And yet he had lain at her breast!
And she had saved his life by sacrificing the life of her
own child. But she was prolific and had several sons,
who grew up and were labourers and railway men; one of
them was a convict.

But the old Baron looked forward with anxiety to the
day on which his son should marry and have children in
his turn. He did not look strong! He would have been
far more reassured if the other little Baron, the one who
had died at the orphanage, had been the heir to the estates.
And when he read The Slaves of Life a second time, he
had to admit that the upper classes live at the mercy of
the lower classes, and when he read Darwin again he could

104 UNNATURAL SELECTION

not deny that natural selection, in our time, was anything
but natural. But facts were facts and remained unalter-
able, in spite of all the doctor and the socialists might say
to the contrary.

AN ATTEMPT AT REFORM

SHE had noticed with indignation that girls were solely
brought up to be housekeepers for their future hus* .
bands. Therefore she had learnt a trade which would
enable her to keep herself in all circumstances of life. She
made artificial flowers.

He had noticed with regret that girls simply waited for
a husband who should keep them; he resolved to marry
a free and independent woman who could earn her own
living; such a woman would be his equal and a companion
for life, not a housekeeper.

Fate ordained that they should meet. He was an artist
and she, as I already mentioned, made flowers ; they were
both living in Paris at the time nidien they conceived these
ideas.

There was style in their marriage. They took three
rooms at Passy. In the centre was Uie studio, to the right
of it his room, to the left hers. This did away with the
common bed-room and double bed, that abomination which
has no counterpart in nature and is responsible for a great
deal of dissipation and immorality. It moreover did away
with the inconvenience of having to dress and undress in
the same room. It was far better that each of them ^ould
have a separate room and that the studio should be a neu- '^
tral, common meeting-place.

They required no servant; they were going to do the
cooking themselves and employ an old duirwoman in the
mornings and evenings. It was all very well thought out
and excellent in theory.

"But supposing you had children?" asked the sceptics.

"Nonsense, there won't be any I'*

It worked splendidly. He went to the market in the
morning and did the catering. Then he made the coffee.
She made the beds and put the rooms in ordor. And then
they sat down and worked.

1^

io6 AN ATTEMPT AT REFORM

When they were dred of working they gossiped,
gave one another good advice^ laughed and were very
jolly.

At twelve o'clock he lit the kitchen fire and she pre-
pared the vegetables. He cooked the beef, while she ran
across the street to the grocer's; then she laid the table and
he dished up the dinner.

Of course, they loved one another as husbands and wives
do. They said good-night to each otiber and went into
their own rooms, but there was no lock to keep him out
when he knocked at her door; but the accommodation was
small and the morning found them in their own quarters.
Then he knocked at the wall:

"Good morning, little girlie, how are you to-day?"

"Very well, darling, and you?"

Their meeting at breakfast was always like a new ex-
perience which never grew stale.

They often went out together in the evening and fre-
quently met their coimtrymen. She had no objection to
the smell of tobacco, and was never in the way. Every-
body said that it was an ideal marriage; no one had ever
known a happier couple.

But the young wife's parents, who lived a long way off,
were always writing and asking all sorts of indelicate ques-
tions; they were longing to have a grandchild. Louisa
ought to remember that the institution of marriage existed
for the benefit of the children, not the parents. Louisa
held that this view was an old-fashioned one. Mama asked
her whether she did not think that the result of the new
ideas would be the complete extirpation of mankind?
Louisa had never looked at it in that light, and moreover
the question did not interest her. Both she and her hus-
band were happy; at last the spectacle of a happy married
couple was presented to the world, and the world was
envious.

Life was very pleasant Neither of them was master
and they shar^ expenses. Now he earned more, now
she did, but in the end their contributions to the common
fund amounted to the same figure.

Then she had a birthday! She was awakened in the

AN ATTEMPT AT REFORM 107

morning by the entrance of the charwoman with a bmich
of flowers and a letter painted all over with flowers, and
containing the following words:

"To the lady flower-bud from her dauber, who wishes
her many happy returns of the day and begs her to hon-
our him with her company at an excellent little breakfast —
at once."

She knocked at his door — come in!

And they breakfasted, sitting on the bed — ^his bed; and
the charwoman was kept the whole day to do all the work.
It was a lovely birthday!

Their happiness never palled. It lasted two years. All
the prophets had prophesied falsely.

It was a model marriage!

But when two years had passed, the young wife fell
ill. She put it down to some poison contained in the
wall-paper; he suggested germs of some sort. Yes, cer-
tainly, germs. But something was wrong. Something was
not as it should be. She must have caught cold. Then
she grew stout. Was she suffering from tumour? Yes,
they were afraid she was.

She consulted a doctor — ^and came home crying. It waa
indeed a growth, but one which would one day see day-
light, grow into a flower and bear fruit.

The husband did anything but cry. He found style in
it, and then the wretch went to his dub and boasted about
it to his friends. But the wife still wept. What would
her position be now? She would soon not be able to earn
money with her work and then she would have to live on
him. And they would have to have a servant! Ugh! those
servants!

All their care, their caution, their wariness had been
wrecked on the rock of the inevitable.

But the mother-in-law wrote enthusiastic letters and
repeated over and over again that marriage was instituted
by God for the protection of the children; the parents'
pleasure counted for very little.

Hugo implored her to forget the fact that she would
not t^ able to earn anything in future. Didn't she do
her full share of the work by mothering the baby? Wasn't

io8 AN ATTEMPT AT REFORM

that as good as money? Money was, rightly understood,
nothing but work. Therefore she paid her share in full.

It took her a long time to get over the fact that he
had to keep her. But when the baby came, she forgot all
about it. She remained his wife and companion as before
in addition to being the mother of his child, and he found
that this was worth more than anything dse.

A NATURAL OBSTACLE

HER father had insisted on her learning book-keeping,
so that she might escape the common lot of yoimg
womanhood; to sit there and wait for a husband.

She was now employed as book-keeper in the goods
department of the Railways, and was universally looked
upon as a very capable young woman. She had a way
of getting on with people, and her prospects were excellent.

Then she met the green forester from the School of For-
estry and married him. They had made up their minds
not to have any children; theirs was to be a true, spiritual
marriage, and the world was to be made to realise that
a woman, too, has a soul, and is not merely sex.

Husband and wife met at dinner in the evening. It really
was a true marriage, the union of two souls; it was, of
course, also the union of two bodies, but this is a point
one does not discuss.

One day the wife came home and told her husband
that her ofiice hours had been changed. The directors had
decided to run a new night train to Malmo, and in future
she would have to be at her ofiice from six to nine in the
evening. It was a nuisance, for he could not come home
before six. That was quite impossible.

Henceforth they had to dine separately and meet only at
night. He was dissatistied. He hated the long evenings.

He fell into the habit of calling for her. But he found
it dull to sit on a chair in the goods department and have
the porters knocking against him. He was always in the
way. And when he tried to talk to her as she sat at her
desk with the penholder behind her ear, she interrupted
him with a ciu't:

"Oh! do be quiet until IVe done!"

Then the porters turned away their faces and he could
see by their backs that they were laughing.

109

no A NATURAL OBSTACLE

Sometimes one or the other of her colleagues announced
him with a:

"Your husband is waiting for you, Mrs. X."

"Your husband!" There was something scornful in the
very way in which they pronounced the word.

But what irritated him more than anything else was
the fact that the desk nearest to her was occupied by a
"young ass" who was alwa3rs gazing into her eyes and
everlastingly consulting the ledger, bending over her shoul-
ders so that he almost touched her with his chin. And
they talked of invoices and certificates, of things which
might have meant anything for all he knew. And they
compared papers and figures and seemed to be on more
familiar terms with one another than husband and wife
were. And that was quite natural, for she saw more of
the young ass than of her husband. It struck him that
their marriage was not a true spiritual marriage after
all; in order to be that he, too, would have had to be
employed in the goods department. But as it happened he
was at the School of Forestry.

One day, or rather one night, she told him that on the
following Saturday a meeting of railway employes, which
was to conclude with a dinner, would be held, and that
she would have to be present. Her husband received the
communication with a little air of constraint.

"Do you want to go?" he asked naively.

"Of course. Idol"

"But you will be the only woman amongst so many
men, and when men have had too much to drink, they
are apt to become coarse."

"Don't you attend the meetings of the School of For-
estry without me?"

"Certainly, but I am not the only man amongst a lot
of women."

"Men and women were equals, she was amazed that
he, who had always preached the emancipation of women
could have any objection to her attending the meet-
ing."

"He admitted that it v/as nothing but prejudice on his
nart. He admitted that she was right and that he was

A NATURAL OBSTACLE in

wrong, but all the same he begged her not to go; he hated
the idea. He couldn't get over the fact."

"He was inconsequent."

"He admitted that he was inconsequent, but it would
take ten generations to get used to the new conditions."

"Then he must not go to meetings either?"

"That was quite a different matter, for his meetings
were attended by men only. He didn't mind her going
out without him; what he didn't like was that she went
out alone with so many men."

"She wouldn't be alone, for the cashier's wife would
be present as — "

"As what?"

"As the cashier's wife."

"Then couldn't he be present as her husband?"

"Why did he want to make himself so cheap by being in
the way?"

"He didn't mind making himself cheap."

"Was he jealous?"

"Yes! Why not? He was afraid that something might
come between them."

"What a shame to be jealous! What an insult! What
distrust! What did he think of her?"

"That she was perfect. He would prove it. She could
go alone!"

"Could she really? How condescending of him!"

She went. She did not come home imtil the early hours
of the morning. She awakened her husband and told him
how well it had all gone off. He was delighted to hear
it. Somebody had made a speech about her; they had
sung quartets and ended with a dance.

"And how had she come home?"

"The young ass had accompanied her to the front door."

"Supposing anybody who knew them had seen her at
three o'clock in die morning in the company of the young
ass?"

"Well, and what then? She was a respectable woman."

"Yes, but she might easily lose her reputation."

"Ah! He was jealous, and what was even worse, he
was envious. He grudged her every little bit of fun. That

112 A NATURAL OBSTACLE

was what being married meant I To be scolded if one
dared to go out and enjoy oneself a little. What a stupid
institution marriage was I But was their union a true
marriage? They met one another at night, just as other
married couples did. Men were all alike. Civil enough
until they were married, but afterwards, oh! afterwards . . .
Her husband was no better than other men: he looked upon
her as his property, he thought he had a right to order
her about."

"It was true. There was a time when he had believed
that they belonged to one another, but he had made a
mistake. He belonged to her as a dog belonged to its
master. What was he but her footman, who called for
her at night to see her home? He was 'her hus-
band.' But did she want to be *his wife'? Were they
equals?"

"She hadn't come home to quarrel with him. She wanted
to be nothing but his wife, and she did not want him to be
anything but her husband."

The effect of the champagne, he thought, and turned
to the wall.

She cried and begged him not to be unjust^ but to —
forgive her.

He pulled the blankets over his ears.

She asked him again if he — if he didn't want her to be
his wife any more?

"Yes, of course, he wanted her! But he had been so
dreadfully bored all the evening, he could never live through
another evening like it."

"Let them forget all about it then!"

And they forgot all about it and continued loving one
another.

On the following evening, when the green forester came
for his wife, he was told that she had gone to the store
rooms. He was alone in the counting-house and sat down
on a chair. Presently a glass door was opened and the
young ass put in his head:

"Are you here, Annie?"

No, it was only her husband!

He rose and went away. The young ass called his wife

A NATURAL OBSTACLE 113

Annie, and was evidently on very familiar terms with her.
It was more than he could bear.

When she came home they had a scene. She reproached
him with the fact that he did not take his views on the
emancipation of women seriously, otherwise he could not
be annoyed at her being on familiar terms with her fellow-
clerks. He made matters worse by admitting that his views
were not to be taken seriously.

"Surely he didn't mean what he was sayingi Had he
changed his mind? How could hel"

"Yes, he had changed his mind. One could not help
modifying one's views almost daily, because one had to
adapt them to the conditions of life which were always
changing. And if he had believed in spiritual marriages in
the days gone by, he had now come to lose faith in mar-
riages of any sort whatever. That was progress in the
direction of radicalism. And as to the spiritual, she was
spiritually married to the young ass rather than to him,
for they exchanged views on the management of the goods
department daily and hourly, while she took no interest
at all in the cultivation of forests. Was there anything
spiritual in their marriage? Was there?"

"No, not any longer 1 Her love was dead! He had
killed it when he renounced his splendid faith in — the
emancipation of women."

Matters became more and more unbearable. The green
forester began to look to his fellow-foresters for compan-
ionship and gave up thinking of the goods department and
its way of conducting business, matters which he never
understood.

"You don't understand me," she kept on saying over
and over again.

"No, I don't understand the goods dq>artment,'' he
said.

One night, or rather one morning, he told her that he
was going botanising with a girls' dass. He was teaching
botany in a girls' school.

"Oh I indeed 1 Why had he never mentioned it before?
Big girls?"

"Oht very hki ones« F^om sixteen to twenty."

114 A NATURAL OBSTACLE

"H'ml In the morning?"

"No! In the afternoon! And they would have supper
in one of the outlying little villages."

"Would they? The head-mistress would be there of
course?"

"Oh! no, she had every confidence in him, since he was
a married man. It was an advantage, sometimes, to be
married."

On the next day she was ill.

"Surely he hadn't the heart to leave her!"

"He must consider his work before anything else. Was
she very ill?"

"Oh! terribly ill!"

In spite of her objections he sent for a doctor. The doc-
tor declared that there was nothing much the matter; it
was quite unnecessary for the husband to stay at home.

The green forester returned towards morning. He was
in high spirits. He had enjoyed himself immensely! He
had not had such a day for a long, long time.

The storm burst. Huhuhu! This struggle was too
much for her! He must swear a solenm oath never to
love any woman but her. Never I

She had convulsions; he ran for the smelling salts.

He was too generous to give her details of the supper
with the schoolgirls, but he could not forego the pleasure
of mentioning his former simile anent dogs and possession,
and he took the occasion to draw her attention to the fact
that love without the conception of a right to possession —
on both sides — ^was not thinkable. What was making her
cry? The same thing which had made him swear, when
she went out with twenty men. The fear of losing him!
But one can lose only that which one possesses! Possesses!

Thus the rent was repaired. But goods department and
girls' school were ready with their scissors to imdo the
laborious mending.

The mony was disturbed.

The re fell Ul.

She sure that she had hurt herself in lifting a

G iicn too heavy for her. She was so keen on

rk X sne could not bear to vr^it while the porters

A NATURAL OBSTACLE iiS

stood about and did nothing. She was compelled to lend
a hand. Now she must have ruptured herself.

Yes, indeed, there was something the matter!

How angry she was! Angry witih her husband who alone
was to blame. What were they going to do with the
baby? It would have to be boarded out! Rousseau had
done that. It was true, he was a fool, but on this par-
ticular point he was right.

She was full of fads and fancies. The forester had to
resign his lessons at the girls' school at once.

She chafed and fretted because she was no longer able
to go into the store rooms, but compelled to stay in the
counting-house all day long and make entries. But the
worst blow which befell her was the arrival of an assistant
whose secret mission it was to take her place when she
would be laid up.

The manner of her colleagues had changed, too. The
porters grinned. She felt ashamed and longed to hide
herself. It would be better to stay at home and cook her
husband's dinner than sit here and be stared at. Oh!
What black chasms of prejudice lay concealed in the deceit-
ful hearts of men!

She stayed at home for the last month, for the walk to
and from her office four times a day was too much for her.
And she was always so hungry! She had to send out for
sandwiches in the morning. And every now and then she
felt faint and had to take a rest. What a life! A woman's
lot was indeed a miserable one.

The baby was bom.

"Shall we board it out?" asked the father.

"Had he no heart?"

"Oh! yes, of course he had!"

And the baby remained at home.

Then a very polite letter arrived from the head office,
enquiring after the young mother's health.

"She was very well and would be back at the office on
the day after to-morrow."

She was still a little weak and had to take a cab; but
she soon picked up her strength. However, a new difficulty
now presented itself. She must be kept informed of

Ii6 A NATURAL OBSTACLE

baby's condition; a messenger boy was despatched to her
home, at first twice a day, then every two hours. And
v^en she was told that the baby had been crying, she put
on her hat and rushed home at once. But the assistant
was there, ready to take her place. The head derk was
very civil and made no comment.

One day the young mother discovered accidentally that

* the nurse was unable to feed the baby, but had concealed

I the fact for fear of losing her place. She had to take a

iday off in order to find a new fostermother. But they

were all alike; brutal egoists every one of them, who took

no interest in the children of strangers. No one could

ever depend on them.

^^No," agreed the husband, "in a case of this sort one can
only depend on oneself."

"Do you mean to insinuate that I ought to give up my
work?"

"Oh! You must do as you like about that!"

"And become your slave!"

"No, I don't mean that at all!"

The little one was not at all well; all children are ill
occasionally. He was teething! One day's leave after
another! The poor baby suffered from toothache. She had
to soothe him at night, work at the office during the day,
sleepy, tired, anxious, and again take a day off.

The green forester did hk best and carried the baby
about in his arms half the night, but he never said a word
about his wife's work at the goods department.

Nevertheless she knew what was in his mind. He was
waiting for her to give in; but he was deceitful and so
he said nothing! How treacherous men were! She hated
him; she would sooner kill herself than throw up her work
and "be his slave."

The forester saw quite dearly now that it was impos-
sible for any woman to emancipate hersdf from the laws
of nature; under present circumstances, he was shrewd
enough to add.

When the baby was five months old, it was plainly evi-

it that die whole thiqg would before very long repeat
f.

A NATURAL OBSTACLE 117

What a catastrophe I

But when that sort of thing once begins. • . •

The forester was obliged to resume his lessons at the
girls' school to augment their income, and now — she laid
down her arms.

"I am your slave, now," she groaned, when she came
home with her discharge.

Nevertheless she is the head of the house, and he gives
her every penny he earns. When he wants to buy a cigar
he makes a long speech before he ventures to ask for the
money. She never refuses it to him, but all the same he
finds the asking for it unpleasant. He is allowed to attend
meetings, but no dinners, and all botanising with girls is
strictly forbidden. He does not miss it much, for he prefers
playing with his children.

His colleagues call him henpecked; but he smiles, and
tells them that he is happy in spite of it, because he has
in his wife a very sweet and sensible companion.

She, on her part, obstinately maintains that she is noth-
ing but his slave, whatever he might say to the contrary.
It is her one comfort, poor, little woman!

A DOLUS HOUSE

THEY had been married for six years, but they were
still more like lovers than husband and wife. He was
a captain in the navy, and every summer he was obliged
to leave her for a few months; twice he had been away
on a long voyage. But his short absences were a blessing
in disguise, for if their relations had grown a little stale
during the winter, the summer trip invariably restored
them to their former freshness and delightfulness.

During the first summer he wrote veritable love-letters
to her and never passed a sailing ship without signalling:
"Will you take letters?" And when he came in sight of
the landmarks of the Stockholm Archipelago, he did not
know how to get to her quickly enough. But she found
a way. She wired him to Landsort that she would meet
him at Dalaro. When he anchored, he saw a little blue scarf
fluttering on the verandah of the hotel: then he knew that
it was she. But there was so much to do aboard that it
was evening before he could go ashore. He saw her from
his gig on the landing-stage as the bow held out his oar
to fend off; she was every bit as young, as pretty and as
strong as she had been when he left her; it was exactly
as if they were re-living the first spring days of their love.
A delicious little supper waited for him in the two little
rooms she had engaged. What a lot they had to talk about!
The voyage, the children, the future I The wine sparkled
in the glasses and his kisses brought the blood to her
cheeks.

Tattoo went on the ship, but he took no notice of it,
for he did not intend to leave her before one o'clock,

"What? He was going?"

"Yes; he must get back aboard, but it would do if he
was there for the morning watch."

"When did the morning watch begin?"

"At five o'clock."

119

120 A DOLL'S HOUSE

"Oh! ... As early as thati"

"But where was she going to stay the night?"

"That was her business!"

He guessed it and wanted to have a look at her room;
but she planted herself firmly on the threshold. He cov-
ered her face with kisses, took her in his arms as if she
were a baby and opened the door.

"What an enormous bed! It was like the long boat.
Where did the people get it from?"

She blushed crimson.

"Of course, she had understood from his letter that
they would stay at the hotel together."

Well, and so they would, in spite of his having to be
back aboard for the morning watch. What did he care
for the stupid morning prayers!"

"How could he say such a thing!"

"Hadn't they better have some coffee and a fire? The
sheets felt damp! What a sensible little rogue she was
to provide for his staying, too! Who would have thought
that she had so much sense? Where did she get it from?"

"She didn't get it from anywhere!"

"No? Well, he might have known! He might have
known everything!"

"Oh! But he was so stupid!"

"Indeed, he was stupid, was he?"

And he slipped his arm round her waist.

"But he ought to behave himself!"

"Behave himself? It was easy to talk! "

"The girl was coming with the wood!"

When it struck two, and sea and Skerries were flaming
in the east, they were sitting at the open window.

"They were lovers still, weren't they? And now he must
go. But he would be back at ten, for breakfast, and after
that they would go for a sail."

He made some coffee on her spirit lamp, and they drank
it while the sim was rising and the seagulls screamed.
The gunboat was lying far out at sea and every now
and then he saw the cutlasses of the watch glinting in the
sunlight. It was hard to part, but the certainty of meeting
Q in a few hours' time helped them to bear it. He

A DOLL'S HOUSE 121

kissed her for the last time, biickled on his sword and
left her.

When he arrived at the bridge and shouted: "boat ahoy!"
she hid herself behind the window curtains as if she were
ashamed to be seen. He blew kisses to her until the sailors
came with the gig. Then a last: "Sleep well and dream of
me'' and the gig put off. He watched her through his
passes, and for a long time he could distinguish a little
figure with black hair. The sunbeams fell on her night*
dress and bare throat and made her look like a mermaid.

The reveille went. The longdrawn bugle notes rolled
out between the green islands over the shining water and
returned from behind the pine woods. The whole crew as-
sembled on deck and the Lord's Prayer and "Jesus, at the
day's beginning" were read. The little church tower of
Dalaro answered with a faint ringing of bells, for it was
Sunday. Cutters came up in the morning breeze: flags
were flying, shots resounded, light summer dresses gleamed
on the bridge, the steamer, leaving a crimson track behind
her, steamed up, the fishers hauled in their nets, and the
sun shone on the blue, billowy water and the green
islands.

At ten o'clock six pairs rowed the gig ashore from the
gunboat. They were together again. And as they sat at
breakfast in the large dining-room, the hotel guests watched
and whispered: "Is she his wife?" He talked to her in
an undertone like a lover, and she cast down her eyes
and smiled; or hit his fingers with her dinner napkin.

The boat lay alongside the bridge; she sat at the helm,
he looked after the foresail. But he could not take his
eyes off her finely shaped figure in the light summer dress,
her determined little face and proud eyes, as she sat look-
ing to windward, while her little hand in its strong leather
glove held the mainsheet. He wanted to talk to her and
was purposely clumsy in tacking; then she scolded him
as if he were a cabin boy, which amused him immensely.

"Why didn't you bring the baby with you?" he asked her
teasingly.

"Where should I have put it to sleep?"

"In the long boat, of course?"

122 A DOLL'S HOUSE

•

She smiled at him in a way which filled his heart with
happiness.

"Well, and what did the proprietress say this morning?"

"What should she say?"

"Did she sleep well last night?"

"Why shouldn't she sleep well?"

"I don't know; she might have been kept awake by rats,
or perhaps by the rattling of a window; who can tell what
might not disturb the gentle sleep of an old maid!"

"If you don't stop talking nonsense, I shall make the
sheet fast and sail you to the bottom of the sea."

They landed at a small island and ate their luncheon
which they had brought with them in a little basket. After
lunch they shot at a target with a revolver. Then they pre-
tended to fish with rods, but they caught nothing and sailed
out again into the open sea where the eidergeese were,
through a strait where they watched the carp playing about
the rushes. He never tired of looking at her, talking to
her, kissing her.

In this manner they met for six simimers, and always
they were just as young, just as mad and just as happy
as before. They spent the winter in Stockholm in their
little cabins. He amused himself by rigging boats for his
little boys or telling them stories of his adventures in China
and the South Sea Islands, while his wife sat by him, listen-
ing and laughing at his funny tales. It was a charming
room, that could not be equalled in the whole world. It
was crammed full of Japanese sunshades and armour, minia-
ture pagodas from India, bows and lances from Australia,
nigger drums and dried flying fish, sugar cane and opium
pipes. Papa, whose hair was growing thin at the top,
did not feel very happy outside his own four walls. Occa-
sionally he played at draughts with his friend, the auditor,
and sometimes they had a game at Boston and drank a
glass of grog. At first his wife had joined in the game,
but now that she had four children, she was too busy;
nevertheless, she liked to sit with the players for a little
and look at their cards, and whenever she passed Papa's
chair he caught her round the waist and asked her whether
she thought he ought to be pleased with his hand.

A DOLL'S HOUSE 123

This time the corvette was to be away for six months.
The captain did not feel easy about it, for the children
were growing up and the responsibility of the big estab-
lishment was too much for Mama. The captain himself
was not quite so young and vigorous as he had been, but —
it could not be helped and so he left.

Directly he arrived at Kronborg he posted a letter to
her.

"My darling Topmast/' it began.

"Wind moderate, S.S.E. by E. + 10® C. 6 bells, watch
below. I cannot express in words what I feel on this voyage
during which I shall not see you. When we kedged out (at
6 p.m. while a strong gale blew from N.E. by N.) I felt
as if a belaying pin were suddenly being driven into my
chest and I actually had a sensation as if a chain had
been drawn through the hawsepipes of my ears. They say
that sailors can feel the approach of misfortune. I don't
know whether this is true, but I shall not feel easy until
I have had a letter from you. Nothing has happened on
board, simply because nothing must happen. How are you
all at home? Has Bob had his new boots, and do they fit?
I am a wretched correspondent as you know, so 111 stop
now. With a big kiss right on this x.

"Your old Pal.

"P.S. You ought to find a friend (female, of course)
and don't forget to ask the proprietress at Dalaro to take
care of the long boat until my return. The wind is getting
up; it will blow from the North to-night."

Off Portsmouth the captain received the following letter
from his wife:

"Dear old Pal,

"It's horrible here without you, believe me. I have
had a lot of worry, too, for little Alice has got a new
tooth. The doctor said it was unusually early, which was
a sign of (but I'm not going to tell you that). Bob's
boots fit him very well and he is very proud of them.

"You say in your letter that I ought to find a friend of

/

124 A DOLL'S HOUSE

my own sex. Well, I have found one, or, rather, she has
found me. Her name is Ottilia Sandegren, and she was
educated at the seminary. She is rather grave and tsdces
life very seriously, therefore you need not be afraid, Pal,
that your Topmast will be led astray. Moreover, she is
religious. We really ought to take religion a little more
seriously, both of us. She is a splendid woman. She has
just arrived and sends you her kind regards.

"Your GurH."

The captain was not overpleased with this letter. It was
too short and not half as bright as her letters generally
were. Seminary, religion, grave, Ottilia: Ottilia twice!
And then Gurli! Why not Gulla as before? H'm!

A week later he received a second letter from Bordeaux,
a letter which was accompanied by a book, sent under
separate cover.

"DearWaiiaml"— "H'm! Williaml No longer Pall"—
"Life is a struggle" — ^"What the deuce does she mean?
What has that to do with us?" — ^"from beginning to end.
Gently as a river in Kedron" — ^"Kedron! she's quoting the
Bible!" — ^*'our life has glided along. Like sleepwalkers we
have been walking on the edge of precipices without being
aware of them" — "The seminary, oh! the seminary!" —
"Suddenly we find ourselves face to face with the ethical"
— "The ethical? Ablative!" — ^**asserting itself in its higher
potencies!" — "Potencies?" — ^"Now that I am awake from
my long sleep and ask myself: has our marriage been a
marriage in the true sense of the word? I must admit
with shame and remorse that this has not been the case.
For love is of divine origin. (St. Matthew xi. 22, 24.)"

The captain had to mix himself a glass of rum and
water before he felt able to continue his reading. — ^''How
earthly, how material our love has been! Have our souls
lived in that harmony of which Plato speaks? (Phaidon,
Book vi. Chap. ii. Par. 9). Our answer is bound to be
in the negative. What have I been to you? A house-
keeper and, oh! the disgrace! your mistress! Have our
souls understood one another? Again we are bound to
answer 'No.' " — ^"To Hell with all Ottilias and seminaries!

A DOLL'S HOUSE 125

Has she been my housekeeper? She has been my wife
and the mother of my children!" — ^**Read the book I have
sent you I It will answer all your questions. It voices
that which for centuries has lain hidden in the hearts of
all women! Read it, and then tell me if you think that
our union has been a true marriage. Your Gurli."

His presentiment of evil had not deceived him. The
captain was beside himself; he could not tmderstand what
had happened to his wife. It was worse than religious
hypocrisy.

He tore off the wrapper and read on the title page of
a book in a paper cover: Et Dukkehjem af Henrik Ibsen.
A Doll's House? Well, and — ? His home had been a
charming doH's house; his wife had been his little doll
and he had been her big doll. They had danced along
the stony path of life and had been happy. What more
did they want? What was wrong? He must read the book
at once and find out.

He finished it in three hours. His brain reeled. How
did it concern him and his wife? Had they forged bills?
No! Hadn't they loved one another? Of course fiiey had!

He locked himself into his cabin and read the book a
second time; he underlined passages in red and blue, and
when the dawn broke, he took pen and paper and wrote
to his wife:

"A well-meant little ablative on the play A Dollys House,
written by the old Pal on board the Vanadis in the Atlantic
off Bordeaux. (Lat. 45** Long. i6°.)

^^i. She married him because he was in love with her,
and that was a deuced clever thing to do. For if she had
waited until she had fallen in love with someone, it might
have happened that he would not have fallen in love with
her, and then there would have been the devil to pay. For
it happens very rarely that both parties are equally in
love.

"2. She forges a bill. That was foolish, but it is not
true that it was done for the husband's sake only, for she
has never loved him; it would have been the truth if she
had said that she had done it for him, herself and the
children. Is that dear?

126 A DOLL'S HOUSE

"3. That he wants to embrace her after the ball is
only a proof of his love for her, and there is no wrong
in that ; but it should not be done on the stage. 7/ y a
des choses qui se font mais que ne se disent point,' as the
French say, Moreover, if the poet had been fair, he would
also save shown an opposite case. 'La petite chienne veut,
mais le grand chien ne veut pas,' says OUendorf. (Vide
the long boat at Dalaro.)

^^4. That she, when she discovers that her husband is a
fool (and that he is when he offers to condone her offence
because it has not leaked out) decides to leave her chil-
dren *not considering herself worthy of bringing them up/
is a not very clever trick of coquetry. If they have both
been fools (and surely they don't teach at tiie seminary
that it is right to forge bills) they should pull well together
in future in double harness.

"Least of all is she justified in leaving her children's
education in the hands of the father whom she despises.

"5. Nora has consequently every reason for sta3ang
with her children when she discovers what an imbecile her
husband is.

"6. The husband cannot be blamed for not sufficiently
appreciating her, for she doesn't reveal her true character
until after the row.

"7. Nora has undoubtedly been a fool; she herself does
not deny it.

"8. There is every guarantee of their pulling together
more happily in future; he has repented and promised to
turn over a new leaf. So has she. Very well I Here's
my hand, let's begin again at the beginning. Birds of
a feather flock together. There's nothing lost, we've both
been fools! You, little Nora, were badly brought up.
I, old rascal, didn't know any better. We are both to
be pitied. Pelt our teachers with rotten eggs, but don't
hit me alone on the head. I, though a man, am every bit
as innocent as you are! Perhaps even a little more so, for
I married for love, you for a home. Let us be friends,
therefore, and together teach our children the valuable les-
son we have learnt in the school of life.

"Is that clear? All right then!

A DOLL'S HOUSE 127

"This was written by Captain Pal with his stiff fingers
and slow brain!

"And now, my darling dolly, I have read your book and
given you my opinion. But what have we to do with it?
Didn't we love one another? Haven't we educated one
another and helped one another to rub off our sharp cor-
ners? Surely you'll remember that we had many a little
encounter in the beginning! What fads of yours are
those? To hell with all Ottilias and seminaries!

"The book you sent me is a queer book. It is like
a watercourse with an insufficient number of buoys, so
that one might run aground at any moment. But I pricked
the chart and found calm waters. Only, I couldn't do it
again. The devil may crack these nuts which are rotten
inside when one has managed to break the shell. I wish yoU
peace and happiness and the recovery of your sound
common sense.

"How are the little ones? You forgot to mention them.
Probably you were thinking too much of Nora's unfortu-
nate kiddies, (which exist only in a play of that sort). Is
m}' little boy crying? My nightingale singing, my dolly
dancing? She must always do that if she wants to make
her old Pal happy. And now may God bless you and pre-
vent evil thoughts from rising between us. My heart is
sadder than I can tell. And I am expected to sit down
and write a critique on a play. God bless you and the
babies; kiss their rosy cheeks for your faithful old
Pal/'

When the captain had sent off his letter, he went into
the officers' mess and drank a glass of punch. The doctor
was there, too.

"Have you noticed a smell of old black breeches?" he
asked. "I should like to hoist myself up to the cat blodc
and let a good old N.W. by N. blow right through me."

But the doctor did not understand what he was driv-
ing at.

"Ottilia, Ottilia! . . . What she wants is a taste of the
handspike. Send the witch to the quarterdeck and let the
second mess loose on her behind closed hatches. One knows
what is good for an old maid."

128 A DOLL'S HOUSE

"What's the matter with you, old chap?" asked the
doctor.

"Plato! Plato I To the devil with Plato I To be six
months at sea makes one sick of Plato. That teaches one
ethics! Ethics? I bet a marlinspike to a large rifle: if
Ottilia were married she would cease talking of Plato."

"What on earth is the matter?"

"Nothing. Do you hear? You're a doctor. What's
the matter with those women? Isn't it bad for them to
remain unmarried? Doesn't it make them . . . ? What?"

The doctor gave him his candid opinion and added that
he was sorry that there were not enough men to go
round.

"In a state of nature the male is mostly polygamous; in
most cases there is no obstacle to this, as there is plenty
of food for the young ones (beasts of prey excepted) : abnor-
malities like unmated females do not exist in nature. But
in civilised countries, where a man is lucky if he earns
enough bread, it is a common occurrence, especially as the
females are in preponderance. One ought to treat unmar-
ried women with kindness, for their lot is a melancholy
one."

"With kindness! That's all very well; but supposing
they are anything but kind themselves!"

And he told the doctor the whole story, even confessing
that he had written a critique on a play.

"Oh! well, no end of nonsense is written," said the doc-
tor, putting his hand on the lid of the jug which contained
the punch. "In the end science decides all great questions!
Science, and nothing else."

When the six months were over and the captain, who
had been in constant, but not very pleasant, correspondence
with his wife, (she had sharply criticised his critique), at
last landed at Dalaro, he was received by his wife, all the
children, two servants and Ottilia. His wife was affection-
ate, but not cordial. She held up her brow to be kissed.
Ottilia was as tall as a stay, and wore her hair short; seen
from the back she looked like a swab. The supper was dull
and they drank only tea. The long boat took in a cargo
of children and the captain was lodged in one of the attics.

/ \

A DOLL'S HOUSE 129

What a change I Poor old Pal looked old and felt
puzzled.

"To be married and yet not have a wife," he thought,
"it's intolerable!"

On the following morning he wanted to take his wife
for a sail. But the sea did not agree with Ottilia. She
had been ill on the steamer. And, moreover, it was Sun-
day. Sunday? That was it I Well, they would go for a
walk. They had a lot to talk about. Of course, they had
a lot to say to each other. But Ottilia was not to come
with them I

They went out together, arm in arm. But they did
not talk much; and what they said were words uttered
for the sake of concealing their thoughts more than for
the sake of exchanging ideas.

They passed the Httle cholera cemetery and took the
road leading to the Swiss Valley. A faint breeze rustled
through the pine trees and glimpses of the blue sea flashed
through the dark branches.

They sat down on a stone. He threw himself on the
turf at her feet. Now the storm is going to burst, he
thought, and it did.

"Have you thought at all about our marriage?" she
began.

"No," he replied, with every appearance of having fully
considered the matter, "I have merely felt about it. In
my opinion love is a matter of sentiment; one steers by
landmarks and makes port; take compass and chart and
you are sure to founder."

"Yes, but our home has been nothing but a doll's
house."

"Excuse me, but this is not quite true. You have never
forged a bill; you have never shown your ankles to a
syphilitic doctor of whom you wanted to borrow money
against security in natura; you have never been so roman-
tically silly as to expect your husband to give himself up
for a crime which his wife had committed from ignorance,
and which was not a crime because there was no plaintiff;
and you have never lied to me. I have treated you every
bit as honestly as Helmer treated his wife when he took

130 A DOLL'S HOUSE

her into his full confidence and allowed her to have a voice
in the banking business; tolerated her interference with
the appointment of an employee. We have therefore been
husband and wife according to all conceptions, old and new-
fashioned."

"Yes, but I have been your housekeeper!"

"Pardon me, you are wrong. You have never had a
meal in the kitchen, you have never received wages, you
have never had to account for money spent. I have never
scolded you because one thing or the other was not to my
liking. And do you consider my work: to reckon and to
brace, to ease off and call out Tresent arms,' count her-
rings and measure rimi, weigh peas and examine flour, more
honourable than yours: to look after the servants, cater
for the house and bring up the children?"

"No, but you are paid for your workl You are your
own master! You are a man!"

"My dear child, do you want me to give you wages? Do
you want to be my housekeeper in real earnest? That I
was bom a man is an accident. I might almost say a pity^
for it's very nearly a crime to be a man now-a-days, but
it isn't my fault. The devil take him who has stirred
up the two halves of humanity, one against the other!
He has much to answer tor. Am I the master? Don't we
both rule? Have I ever decided any important matter with-
out asking for your advice? What? But you — ^you bring
up the children exactly as you like! Don't you remember
that I wanted you to stop rocking them to sleep because
I said it produced a sort of intoxication? But you had
your own way! Another time I had mine, and then it was
your turn again. There was no compromise possible, be-
cause there was no middle course to steer between rocking
and not rocking. We got on very well until now. But you
have thrown me over for Ottilia's sake!"

"Ottilia! always Ottilia! Didn't you yourself send her
to me?"

"No, not her personally! But there can be no doubt that
it is she who rules now."

"You want to separate me from all I care for!"

"Is Ottilia all you care for? It almost looks like it!"

A DOLL'S HOUSE 131

"But I can't send her away now that I have engaged her
to teach the girls pedagogics and Latin."

"Latinl Great Scottl Are the girls to be mined?"

"They are to know everything a man knows, so that
when the time comes, their marriage will be a true mar-
riage."

"But, my love, all husbands don't know Latin 1 I don't
know more than one single word, and that is 'ablative.'
And we have been happy in spite of it. Moreover, there is
a movement to strike off Latin from the plan of instruc-
tion for boys, as a superfluous accomplishment. Doesn't
this teach you a lot? Isn't it enough that the men are
ruined, are the women to be ruined, too? Ottilia, Ottilia,
what have I done to you, that you should treat me like
this!"

"Supposing we dropped that matter. — Our love, Wil-
liam, has not been what it should be. It has been sensual 1"

"But, my darling, how could we have had children,
if it hadn't? And it has not been sensual only."

"Can a thing be both black and white? Tell me that!"

"Of course, it can. There's your sunshade for instance,
it is black outside and white inside."

"Sophist!"

"Listen to me, sweetheart, tell me in your own way the
thoughts which are in your heart; don't talk like Ottilia's
books. Don't let your head run away with you; be your-
self again, my sweet, darling little wife."

"Yours, your property, bought with your labour."

"Just as I am your property, your husband, at whom
no other woman is allowed to look if she wants to keep
her eyes in her head; your husband, who made a present of
himself to you, or rather, gave himself to you in exchange.
Are we not quits?"

"But we have trifled away our lives! Have we ever
had any higher interests, William?"

"Yes, the very highest, Gurli; we have not always been
pla3ang, we have had grave hours, too. Have we not called
into being generations to come? Have we not both bravely
worked and striven for the little ones, who are to grow up
into men and women? Have you not faced death four

132 A DOLL'S HOUSE

times for their sakes? Have you not robbed yourself of
your nights' rest in order to rock their cradle, and of
your days' pleasures, in order to attend to them? Couldn't
we now have a large six-roomed fiat in the main street, and
a footman to open the door, if it were not for the children?
Wouldn't you be able to wear silk dresses and pearls? And
I, your old Pal, wouldn't have crowf nests in my knees,
if it hadn't been for the kiddies. Are we really no better
than dolls? Are we as selfish as old maids say? Old maids,
rejected by men as no good. Why are so many girls xm-
married? They all boast of proposals and yet they pose
as mart3n*sl Higher interests! Latin I To dress in low
neck dresses for charitable purposes and leave the children
at home, neglected! I believe that my interests are higher
than Ottilia's, when I want strong and healthy children,
who will succeed where we have failed. But Latin won't
help them! Goodbye, Gurlil I have to go back on board.
Are you coming?"

But she remained sitting on the stone and made no
answer. He went with heavy footsteps, very heavy foot-
steps. And the blue sea grew dark and the sun ceased
shining.

"Pal, Pal, where is this to lead to?" he sighed, as he
stepped over the fence of the cemetery. "I wish I lay
there, with a wooden cross to mark my place, among the
roots of the trees. But I am sure I couldn't rest, if I were
there without her! Oh! Giu'lil Gurlil

"Everything has gone wrong, now, mother," said the
captain on a chilly autumn day to his mother-in-law, to
whom he was paying a visit.

"What's the matter, Willy, dear?"

"Yesterday they met at our house. On the day before
yesterday at the Princess's. Little Alice was suddenly
taken ill. It was imfortunate, of course, but I didn't dare
to send for Gurli, for fear she might think that it was done
on purpose to annoy her! Oh I when once one has lost
faith. ... I asked a friend at the Admiralty yesterday
whether it was legal in Sweden to kill one's wife's frienc^
with tobacco smoke. I was told it wasn't, and that even
if it were it was better not to do it, for fear of doing more

A DOLL'S HOUSE 133

harm than good. If only it happened to be sb admirer! I
should take him by the neck and throw him out of the
window. What am I to do?"

"It's a difficult matter, Willy, dear, but we shall be able
to think of a way out of it. You can't go on living like
a bachelor."

"No, of course, I can't."

"I spoke very plainly to her, a day or two ago.' I told
her that she would lose you if she didn't mend her ways,"

"And what did she say?"

"She said you had a right to do as you liked with yoiu:
body."

"Indeed! And she, too? A fine theory! My hair is
fast turning grey, mother!"

"It's a good old scheme to make a wife jealous. It's gen-
erally kill or cure, for if there is any love left, it brings
it out."

"There is, I know, there is!"

"Of course, there is. Love doesn't die suddenly; it gets
used up in the course of the years, perhaps. Have a flirta-
tion with Ottilia, and we shall see!"

"Flirt with Ottilia? With Ottilia?"

"Try it. Aren't you up in any of the subjects which
interest her?"

"Well, yes! They are deep in statistics, now. Fallen
women, infectious diseases. If I could lead the conversa-
tion to mathematics! I am well up in that!"

"There you are! Begin with mathematics — ^by and by
put her shawl round her shoulders and button her over-
shoes. Take her home in the evening. Drink her health
and kiss her when Gurli is sure to see it. If necessary,
be a little offlcious. She won't be angry, believe me. And
give her a big dose of mathematics, so big that Gurli has
no option but to sit and listen to it quietly. Come again
in a week's time and tell me the result."

The captain went home, read the latest pamphlets on
immorality and at once started to carry out his scheme.

A week later he called on his mother-in-law, serene and
smiling, and greatly enjoying a glass of good sherry. He
was in high spirits.

134 A DOLL'S HOUSE

"Now tell me all about it/' said the old woman, pushing
her spectacles up on her forehead.

"It was difficult work at first," he began, "for she dis-
trusted me. She thought I was making fan of her. Then
I mentioned the effect which the computation of probabili-
ties had had on the statistics of morality in America. I
told her that it had simply been epoch-making. She knew
nothing about it, but the subject attracted her. I gave
her examples and proved in figures that it was possible to
calculate with a certain amount of probability the per-
centage of women who are bound to fall. She was amazed.
I saw that her curiosity was aroused and that she was eager
to provide herself with a trump-card for the next meeting.
Gurli was pleased to see that Ottilia and I were making
friends, and did everything to furtlier my scheme. She
pushed her into my room and closed the door; and there
we sat all afternoon, making calculations. The old witch
was happy, for she felt that she was making use of me,
and after three hours' work we were fast friends. At sup-
per my wife foimd that such old friends as Ottilia and I
ought to call one another by their Christian names. I
brought out my good old sherry to celebrate the occasion.
And then I kissed her on the lips, may God forgive me
for my sins! Gurli looked a little startled, but did not
seem to mind. She was radiant with happiness. The sherry
was strong and Ottilia was weak. I wrapped her in her
cloak and took her home. I gently squeezed her arm and
told her the names of the stars. She became enthusiastic!
She had always loved the stars, but had never been able
to remember their names. The poor women were not
allowed to acquire any knowledge. Her enthusiasm grew
and we parted as the very best of friends who had been
kept apart through misunderstanding each other for such
a long, long time.

"On the next day more mathematics. We worked until
supper time. Gurli came in once or twice and gave us
an encouraging nod. At supper we talked of nothing but
stars and mathematics, and Gurli sat there, silently, listen-
ing to us. Again I took her home. On my way back I
met a friend. We went to the Grand Hotel and drank a

A DOLL'S HOUSE 133

glass of punch. It was one o'clock when I came home.
Gurli was still up waiting for me.

" 'Where have you been all this time, William?' she
asked.

"Then the devil entered into my soul and I replied:

" ^We had such a lot to talk about that I forgot all about
the time.'

**That blow struck home.

" 'I don't think it's nice to nm about half the night
with a yoimg woman,' she said.

"I pretended to be embarrassed and stammered:

" *If one has so much to say to one another, one forgets
sometimes what is nice and what is not.'

" *What on earth did you talk about?' asked Gurli,
pouting.

" *I really can't remember.'

"You managed very well, my boy," said the old woman.
"Goonl"

"On the third day," continued the captain, "Gurli came
in with her needlework and remained in the room imtil
the lesson in mathematics was over. Supper was not quite
as merry as usual, but on the other hand, very astronomical.
I assisted the old witch with her overdoes, a fact which
made a great impression on Gurli. When Ottilia said good-
night, she only offered her cheek to be kissed. On the way
home I pressed her arm and talked of the sympathy of
souls and of the stars as the home of the souls. I went
to the Grand Hotel, had some punch and arrived home at
two o'clock. Gurli was still up; I saw it, but I went straight
to my room, like the bachelor I was, and Gurli did not
like to follow me and ply me with questions.

"On the following day I gave Ottilia a lesson in as-
tronomy. Gurli declared that she was much interested and
would like to be present; but Ottilia said we were already
too far advanced and she would instruct her in the rudi-
ments later on. This annoyed Gurli and she went away.
We had a great deal of sheriy for supper. When Ottilia
thanked me for a jolly evening, I put my arm round her
waist and kissed her. Gurli grew pale. When I buttoned
her overshoes, I . . . I . . ."

136 A DOLL'S HOUSE

"Never mind me," said the old lady, "I am an old
woman."

He laughed. "All the same, mother, she's not so bad,
really she isn't. But when I was going to put on my
overcoat, I found to my astonishment the maid waiting
in the hall, ready to accompany Ottilia home. Gurli made
excuses for me; she said I had caught a cold on the pre-
vious evening, and that she was afraid the night air might
do me harm. Ottilia looked self-conscious and left with-
out kissing Gurli.

"I had promised to show Ottilia some astronomical in-
struments at the College at twelve o'clock on the following
day. She kept her appointment, but she was much de-
pressed. She had been to see Gurli, who had treated her
very unkindly, so she said. She could not imagine why.
When I came home to dinner I found a great change
in Gurli. She was cold and mute as a fish. I could see
that she was suffering. Now was the time to apply the
knife.

" ^What did you say to Ottilia?' I commenced. 'She was
so unhappy.'

" 'What did I say to her? Well, I said to her that she
was a flirt. That's what I said.'

" 'How could you say such a thing?' I replied. 'Surely,
you're not jealous 1'

" 'II Jealous of her!' she burst out.

" 'Yes, that's what puzzles me, for I am sure an intel-
ligent and sensible person like Ottilia could never have
designs on another woman's husband! '

" 'No,' (she was coming to the point) 'but another
woman's husband might have designs on her.'

"'Huhuhu!' she went for me tooth and nail. I took
Ottilia's part; Gurli called her an old maid; I continued
to champion her. On this afternoon Ottilia did not turn
up. She wrote a chilly letter, making excuses and winding
up by sa3dng she could see that she was not wanted. I
protested and suggested that I should go and fetch her.
That made Gurli wild! She was sure ti^at I was in love
with Ottilia and cared no more for herself. She knew that
she was only a silly girl, who didn't know anything, was

A DOLL'S HOUSE 137

no good at anything, and — ^huhuhul — could never under-
stand mathematics. I sent for a sleigh and we went for
a ride. In a hotel, overlooking the sea, we drank mulled
wine and had an excellent little supper. It was just as
if we were having our wedding day over again, and Aen we
drove home."

"And then — ?" asked the old woman, looking at him over
her spectacles.

"And then? H'm! May God forgive me for my sins!
I seduced my own little wife. What do you say now,
granny?"

"I say that you did very well, my boy! And then?"

"And then? Since then everything has been all right,
and now we discuss the education of the children and the
emancipation of women from superstition and old-maidish-
ness, from sentimentality and the devil and his ablative,
but we talk when we are alone together and that is the
best way of avoiding misunderstandings. Don't you think
so, old lady?"

"Yes, Willy, dear, and now I shall come and pay you
a call."

"Do come! And you will see the dolls dance and the
larks and the woodpeckers sing and chirrup; you will see
a home filled with happiness up to the roof, for there
is no one there waiting for miracles which only happen
in fairy tales. You will see a real doll's house."

PHGENIX

THE wild strawberries were getting ripe when he met
her for the first time at the vicarage. He had met
many girls before, but when he saw her he knew; this was
she I But he did not dare to tell her so, and she only teased
him for he was still at school.

He was an undergraduate when he met her for the sec-
ond time. And as he put his arms round her and kissed
her, he saw showers of rockets, heard the ringing of bells
and bugle calls, and felt the earth trembling under his
feet.

She was a woman at the age of fourteen. Her young
bosom seemed to be waiting for hungry little moutl^ and
eager baby fists. With her firm and elastic step, her round
and swelling hips, she looked fit to bear at any moment
a baby under her heart: Her hair was of a pale gold,
like clarified honey, and Surrounded her face like an aure-
ole; her eyes were two flames and her skin was as soft
as a glove.

They were engaged to be married and billed and cooed
in the wood like the birds in the garden under the lime
trees; life lay before them like a sunny meadow which the
scythe had not yet touched. But he had to pass his ex-
aminations in mining first, and that would take him, — ^in-
cluding the journey abroad — ten years. Ten years!

He returned to the University. In the summer he came
back to the vicarage and found her every bit as beautiful.
Three summers he came — ^and the foiurth time she was
pale. There were tiny red lines in the comers of her nose
and her shoulders drooped a little. When the summer
returned for the sixth time, she was taking iron. In the
seventh she went to a watering-place. In the eighth she
suffered from tooth-ache and her nerves were out of order.
Her hair had lost its gloss, her voice had grown shrill, hef
nose was covered with little black specks; she had lost her

139

140 PHOENIX

figure, dragged her feet, and her cheeks were hollow. In
the winter she had an attack of nervous fever, and her hair
had to be cut off. When it grew again, it was a dull brown.
He had fallen in love with a golden-haired girl of four-
teen — brunettes did not attact him — ^and he married a
woman of twenty-four, with dull brown hair, who refused
to wear her dresses open at the throat.

But in spite of all this he loved her. His love was less
passionate than it had been; it had become calm and
steadfast. And there was nothing in the little mining-town
which could disturb their happiness.

She bore him two boys, but he was alwajrs wishing for
a girl. And at last a fair-haired baby girl arrived.

She was the apple of his eye, and as she grew up she
resembled her mother more and more. When she was
eight years old, she was just what her mother had been.
And the father devoted all his spare time to his little
daughter.

The housework had coarsened the mother's hands. Her
nose had lost its shape and her temples had fallen in. Con-
stant stooping over the kitchen range had made her a little
round-shouldered. Father and mother met only at meals
and at night. They did not complain, but things had
changed.

But the daughter was the father's delight. It was al-
most as if he were in love with her. He saw in her the
re-incarnation of her mother, his first impression of her, as
beautiful as it had been fleeting. lie was almost self-
conscious in her company and never went into her room
when she was dressing. He worshipped her.

But one morning the child remained in bed and re-
fused to get up. Mama put it down to laziness, but papa
sent for the doctor. The shadow of the angel of death
lay over the house: the child was suffering from diphtheria.
Either father or mother must take the other children away.
He refused. The mother took them to a little house in one
of the suburbs and the father remained at home to nurse
the invalid. There she lay! The house was disinfected
with sulphur which turned the gilded picture frames black
and tarnished the silver on the dressing-table. He walked

PHCENIX 141

through the empty rooms in silent anguish, and at night,
alone in his big bed, he felt like a widower. He bought
toys for the litde girl, and she smiled at him as he sat on
the edge of the bed trying to amuse her with a Pimch and
Judy show, and asked after mama and her little brothers.

And the father had to go and stand in the street before
the house in the suburbs, and nod to his wife who was
looking at him from the window, and blow kisses to the
children. And his wife signalled to him with sheets of blue
and red paper.

But a day came when the little girl took no more pleas-
ure in Punch and Judy, and ceased smiling; and ceased
talking too, for Death had stretched out his long bony arm
and suffocated her. It had been a hard struggle.

Then the mother returned, full of remorse because she had
deserted her little daughter. There was great misery in
the home, and great wretchedness. When the doctor wanted
to make a post mortem examination, the father objected.
No knife should touch her, for she was not dead to him;
but his resistance was overborne. Then he flew into a
passion and tried to kick and bite the doctor.

When they had bedded her into the earth, he built a
monument over her grave, and for a whole year he visited
it every day. In the second year he did not go quite
so often. His work was heavy and he had litde spare
time. He began to feel the burden of the years; his step
was less elastic; his wound was healing. Sometimes he felt
ashamed when he realised that he was mourning less and
less for his child as time went by; and finally he forgot
all about it.

Two more girls were bom to him, but it was not the same
thing; the void left by the one who had passed away could
never be filled.

Life was a hard struggle. The young wife who had
once been like — ^like no other woman on earth, had gradu-
ally lost her glamour; the gilding had worn off the home
which had once been so bright and beautiful. The children
had bruised and dented their mother's wedding presents,
spoiled the beds and kicked the legs of the furniture. The
stuffing of the sofa was plainly visible here and there, and

142 PHOENIX

the piano had not been opened for years. The noise made
by the children had drowned the music and the voices
had become harsh. The words of endearment had been
cast off with the baby clothes, caresses had deteriorated into
a sort of massage. They were growing old and weary.
Papa was no longer on his knees before mama, he sat in
his shabby armchair and asked her for a match when he
wanted to light his pipe. Yes, they were growing old.

When papa had reached his fiftieth year, mama died.
Then the past awoke and knocked at his heart. When her
broken body, which the last agony had robbed of its few
remaining diarms, had been laid in its grave, the picture
of his fourteen-year-old sweetheart arose in his memory.
It was for her, whom he had lost so long ago that he
mourned now, and with his yearning for her came remorse.
But he had never been imkind to the old mama; he had
been faithful to the fourteen-year-old vicar's daughter
whom he had worshipped on his knees but had never led
to the altar, for he had married an anaemic young woman
of twenty-four. If he were to be quite candid, he would
have to confess that it was she for whom he mourned; it
was true, he also missed the good cooking and unremitting
care of the old mama, but that was a different thing.

He was on more intimate terms with his children, now;
some of them had left the old nest, but others were still
at home.

When he had bored his friends for a whole year with
anecdotes of the deceased, an extraordinary coincidence
happened. He met a young girl of eighteen, with fair hair,
and a striking resemblance to his late wife, as she had
been at fourteen. He saw in this coincidence the finger
of a bountiful providence, willing to bestow on, him at
last the first one, the well-beloved. He fell in love with
her because she resembled the first one^ And he married
her. He had got her at last.

But his children, especially the girls, resented his seooiid
marriage. They found the relationship between their fa-
ther and step-mother improper; in their opinion he had
been unfaithful to Uieir mother. And they left his house
and went out into the world.

PHOENIX 143

He was happy! And his pride in his young wife ex-
ceeded even his happiness.

"Only the aftermath!" said his old friends.

When a year had gone by, the young wife presented him
with a baby. Papa^ of course, was no longer used to a
baby's crying, and wanted his ni^t's rest. He insisted
on a separate bed-room for himself, heedless of his wife's
tears; really, women were a nuisance sometimes. And,
moreover, she was jealous of his first wife. He had been
fool enough to tell her of the extraordinary likeness which
existed between the two and had let her read his first wife's
love-letters. She brooded over these facts now that he
neglected her. She realised that she had inherited all the
first one's pet names, that she was only her understudy,
as it were. It irritated her and the attempt to win him
for herself led her into all sorts of mischief. But she only
succeeded in boring him, and in silently comparing the two
women, his verdict was entirely in favour of the first one.
She had been so much more gentle than the second who
exasperated him. The longing for his children, whom he
had driven from their home increased his regret, and his
sleep was disturbed by bad dreams for he was haunted by
the idea that he had been imfaithful to his first wife.

His home was no longer a happy one. He had done
a deed, which he would much better have left undone.

He began to spend a good deal of time at his club. But
now his wife was furious. He had deceived her. He was
an old man and he had better look out! An old man who
left his young wife so much alone ran a certain risk. He
might regret it some day!

"Old? She called him old? He would show her that
lie was not old!"

They shared the same room again. But now matters
were seven times worse. He did not want to be bothered
with the baby at night. The proper place for babies was
the nursery. No! he hadn't thought so in the case of the
first wife.

He had to submit to the torture.

Twice he had believed in the mirade of Phoenix rising
irom the ashes of his fourteen year old love, first in his

144 PHGENIX

daughter, then in his second wife. But in his memory lived
the first one only, the little one from the vicarage, whom
he had met when the wild strawberries were ripe, and kissed
under the lime trees in the wood, but whom he had never
married.

But now, as his sun was setting and his days grew short,
he saw in his dark hours only the picture of ihe old mama,
who had been kind to him and his children, who had never
scolded, who was plain, who cooked the meals and patched
the little boys' knickers and the skirts of the little girls.
His flush of victory being over, he was able to see facts
clearly. He wondered whether it was not, after all, the
old mama who had been the real true Phcenix, rising, calm
and beautiful, from the ashes of the fourteen year old bird
of paradise, laying its eggs, plucking the feathers from its
breast to line the nest for the young ones, and nourishing
them with its life-blood until it died.

He wondered . . . but when at last he laid his weary
head on the pillow, never again to lift it up, he was con-
vinced that it was so.

ROMEO AND JULIA

ONE evening the husband came home with a roll of
music under his arm and said to his wife:

"Let us play duets after supper!"

"What have you got there?" asked his wife.

"Romeo and Julia, arranged for the piano. Do you
know it?"

"Yes, of course I do," she replied, "but I don't remem-
ber ever having seen it on the stage."

"Oh! It's splendid 1 To me it is like a dream of my
youth, but I've only heard it once, and that was about
twenty years ago."

After supper, when the children had been put to bed
and the house lay silent, the husband lighted the candles
on the piano. He looked at the lithographed title-page and
read the title: Romeo and Julia.

"This is Gounod's most beautiful composition," he said,
"and I don't believe that it will be too difficult for us."

As usual his wife undertook to play the treble and they
began. D major, common time, allegro giusto,

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" asked the husband, when they
had finished the overture.

"Y — es," admitted the wife, reluctantly.

"Now the martial music," said the husband; "it is ex-
ceptionally fine. I can remember the splendid choruses
at the Royal Theatre,"

They played a march.

"Well, wasn't I right?" asked the husband, triumphantly,
as if he had composed "Romeo and Julia" himself.

"I don't know; it rather sounds like a brass band,"
answered the wife.

The husband's honour and good taste were involved;
he looked for the Moonshine Aria in the fourth act. After
a little searching he came across an aria for soprano. That
must be it.

145

146 ROMEO AND JULIA

And he began again.

Tram-tramtram, tram-tramtram, went the bass; it was
very easy to play.

"Do you know," said his wife, when it was over, "I
don^t think very much of it."

The husband, quite depressed, admitted that it reminded
him of a barrel organ.

"I thought so all along," confessed the wife.

"And I find it antiquated, too. I am surprised that
Gounod should be out of date, already," he added de-
jectedly. "Would you like to go on playing? Let's try
the Cavatina and the Trio; I particularly remember the
soprano; she was divine."

When they stopped playing, the husband looked crest-
fallen and put the music away, as if he wanted to shut
the door on the past.

"Let's have a glass of beer," he said. They sat down
at the table and had a glass of beer.

"It's extraordinary," he began, after a little while, "I
never realised before that weVe grown old, for we really
must have vied with Romeo and Julia as to who should
age faster. It's twenty years ago since I heard the opera
for the first time. I was a newly fledged undergraduate
then, I had many friends and the future smiled at me.
I was immensely proud of the first down on my ui^r lip
and my little college cap, and I remember as if it were
to-day, the evening when Fritz, Phil and myself went to
hear this opera. We had heard Taust' some years before
and were great admirers of Gounod's genius. But Romeo
beat all our expectations. The music roused our wildest
enthusiasm. Now both my friends are dead. Fritz, who
was ambitious, was a private secretary when he died, Phil
a medical student; I who aspired to the position of a
minister of state have to content myself with that of a
regimental judge. The years have passed by quickly and
imperceptibly. Of course I have noticed that the lines
under my eyes have grown deeper and that my hair
has turned grey at the temples, but I should never have
thought that we had travelled so far on the road to the
grave."

ROMEO AND JULIA 147

"Yes, my dear, weVe grown old; our children could teach
us that. And you must see it in me too, although you
don't say anything."

"How can you say that!"

"OhI I know only too well, my dear," continued the
wife, sadly; "I know that I am beginning to lose my good
looks, that my hair is growing thin, that I shall soon lose
my front teeth . • ."

"Just consider how quickly everything passes away" —
interrupted her husband. "It seems to me that one grows
.old much more rapidly now-a-days, than one used to do.
In my father's house Haydn and Mozart were played a
great deal, although they were dead long before he was
born. And now — now Gounod has grown old-fashioned
already! How distressing it is to meet again the ideals
of one's youth under these altered circumstances I And how
horrible it is to feel old age approaching!"

He got up and sat down again at the piano; he took the
music and turned over the pages as if he were looking for
keepsakes, locks of hair, dried flowers and ends of ribbon
in tibe drawer of a writing-table. His eyes were riveted on
the black notes which looked like little birds climbing up
and down a wire fencing; but where were the spring songs,
the passionate protestations, the jubilant avowals of ^e
rosy days of first love? The notes stared back at him like
strangers; as if the memory of life's spring-time were grown
over with weeds.

Yes, that was it; the strings were covered with dust, the
sounding board was dried up, the felt worn away.

A heavy sigh echoed through the room, heavy as if it
came from a hollow chest, and then silence fell.

"But all the same, it is strange," the husband said sud-
denly, "that the glorious prologue is missing in this arrange-
ment. I remember distinctly tihat there was a prologue with
an accompaniment of harps and a chorus which went like
this."

He softly hummed the tune, which bubbled up like a
stream in a mountain glen; note succeeded note, his face
cleared, his lips smiled, the lines disappeared, his fingers
touched the keys^ and drew from them melodies, powerful,

148 ROMEO AND JULIA

caressing and full of eternal youth, while with a strong and
ringing voice he sang the part of the bass.

His wife started from her melancholy reverie and listened
with tears in her eyes.

"What are you singing?" she asked, full of amazem^it.

"Romeo and Julia I Our Romeo and our Julia!"

He jumped up from the music stool and pu^ed the music
towards his astonished wife.

"Look! This was the Romeo of our uncles and aimts,
this was — read it — Bellini 1 Oh! We are not old, after
all!"

The wife looked at the thick, glossy hair of her husband,
his smooth brow and flashing eyes.

"You look like a man of twenty-five!" she laughed, radi-
ant with joy.

"And you? You look like a young girl. We have allowed
old Bellini to make fools of us. I felt that something was
wrong."

"No, darling, I thought so first."

"Probably you did; that is because you are youDgef
than I am."

"No, you ..."

And husband and wife, like a couple of children, laugb^
ingly quarrel over the question of which of them is the elder
of ihe two, and cannot understand how they could have
discovered lines and grey hairs where there are none.

PROLIFICACY

HE was a supernumerary at the Board of Trade and
drew a salary of twelve hundred crowns. He had
married a young girl without a penny; for love, as he him-
self said, to be no longer compelled to go to dances and run
about the streets, as his friends maintained. But be that
as it may, the life of the newly-wedded couple was happy
enough to begin with.

"How cheaply married people can live," he said one day,
after the wedding was a thing of the past. The same sum
which had been barely enough to cover the wants of the
bachelor now sufficed for husband and wife. Really, mar-
riage was an excellent institution. One had all one's re-
quirements within one's four walls: club, caf6, everything;
no more bills of fare, no tips, no inquisitive porter watching
one as one went out with one's wife in the morning.

Life smiled at him, his strength increased and he worked
for two. Never in all his life had he felt so full of over-
flowing energy; he jumped out of bed as soon as he woke
up in the morning, buoyantly, and in the highest spirits, he
was rejuvenated.

When two months had elapsed, long before his new cir-
cumstances had begun to pall, his wife whispered a certain
piece of information into his ear. New joys! New cares I
But cares so pleasant to bear! It was necessary, however,
to increase their income at once, so as to receive the un-
known world-citizen in a manner befitting his dignity. He
managed to obtain an order for a translation.

Baby-clothes lay scattered about all over the furniture,
a cradle stood waiting in the hall, and at last a splendid
boy arrived in this world of sorrows.

The father was delighted. And yet he could not help a
vague feeling of uneasiness whenever he thought of the fu-
ture. Income and expenditure did not balance. Nothing
remained but to reduce his dress allowance.

149

150 PROLIFICACY

His frock coat began to look threadbare at the seams;
his shirt front was hidden underneath a large tie, his trous-
ers were frayed. It was an undeniable fact that the porters
at the office looked down on him on account of his shabU-
ness.

In addition to this he was compelled to lengthen his woriL-
ing day.

"It must be the first and last," he said!. But how was it
to be done?

He was at a loss to know.

Three months later his wife prepared him in carefully
chosen words that his paternal joys would soon be doubled.
It would not be true to say that he rejoiced greatly at the
news. But there was no alternative now; he must travel
along the road he had chosen, even if married life should
prove to be anything but cheap.

"It's true," he thought, his face brightening, "the younger
one will inherit the baby-clothes of his elder brother. Tins
will save a good deal of expense, and there will be food
enough for them — ^I shall be able to feed them just as well
as otiers."

And the second baby was bom.

"You are going it," said a friend of his, who was a nutr-
ried man himself, but father of one child only.

"What is a man to do?"

"Use his common-sense."

"Use his conunon-sense? But, my dear fellow, a man
gets married in order to ... I mean to say, not only in
order to . . . but yet in order to . . . Well, anyhow^
we are married and that settles the matter."

"Not at all. Let me tell you something, my dear boy;
if you are at all hoping for promotion it is absolutely neces-
sary that you should wear clean linen, trousers which are
not frayed at the bottom, and a hat which is not of a rusty
brown."

And the sensible man whispered sensible words into his
ear. As the result, the poor husband was put on shor^
commons in the midst of plenty.

But now his troubles began.

I

PROLIFICACY 151

To start with his nerves went to pieces, he suffered from
insomnia and did his work badly. He consulted a doctor.
The prescription cost him three crowns; and such a pre-
scription! He was to stop working; he had worked too
hard, his brain was overtaxed. To stop work would mean
starvation for all of them, and to work spelt death, tool

He went on working.

One day, as he was sitting at his desk, stooping over end-
less rows of figures, he had an attack of faintness, slipped
off his chair and fell to the ground.

A visit to a specialist— eighteen crowns. A new pre-
scription; he must ask for sick leave at once, take riding
exercise every morning and have steak and a glass of port
for breakfast.

Riding exercise and port!

But the worst feature of the whole business was a feeling
of alienation from his wife which had sprung up in his heart
— ^he did not know whence it came. He was afraid to go
near her and at the same time he longed for her presence.
He loved her, loved her still, but a certain bitterness was
mingled with his love.

"You are growing thin," said a friend.

"Yes, I believe IVe grown thinner," said the poor hus-
band.

"You are playing a dangerous game, old boy!"

"I don't know what you mean!"

"A married man in half mourning! Take care, my
friend!"

"I really don't know what you're driving at."

"It's impossible to go against the wind for any length of
time. Set all sails and run, old chap, and you will see that
everything will come right. Believe me, I know what I'm
talking about. You understand me."

He took no notice of the advice for a time, fully aware
of the fact that a man's income does not increase in propor-
tion to his family; at the same time he had no longer any
doubt about the cause of his malady.

It was summer again. The family had gone into the
country. On a beautiful evening husband and wife were
strolling along the steep shore, in the shade of the alder

152 PROLIFICACY

trees, resplendent in their young green. They sat down on
the turf, silent and depressed.

He was morose and disheartened; gloomy thoughts re-
volved behind his aching brow. Life seemed a great chasm
which had opened to engulf all he loved.

They talked of the probable loss of his appointm^it; his
chief had been annoyed at his second application for sick
leave. He complained of the conduct of his colleagues, he
felt himself deserted by everyone; but the fact which hurt
him more than anything else was the knowledge that she^
too, had grown tired of him.

"Ohl but she hadn't! She loved him every bit as much
as she did in those happy days when they were first en-
gaged. How could he doubt it?"

''No, he didn't doubt it; but he had suffered so much,
he wasn't master of his own thoughts."

He pressed his burning cheek against hers, put his arm
round her and covered her eyes with passionate kisses.

The gnats danced their nuptial dance above the birch tree
without a thought of the thousands of young ones which
their ecstasy would call into being; the carp laid their eggs
in the reed grass, careless of the millions of their kind to
which they gave birth; the swallow made love in broad day-
light, not in the least afraid of the consequences of their
irregular liaisons.

All of a sudden he sprang to his feet and stretched him-
self like a sleeper awakening from a long sleep, which had
been haunted by evil dreams, he drank in the balmly air in
deep draughts.

"What's the matter?" whispered his wife, while a crimson
blush spread over her face.

"I don't know. All I know is that I live, that I breathe
again."

And radiant, with laughing face and shining eyes, he held
out his arms to her, picked her up as if she were a baby and
pressed his lips to her forehead. The muscles of his legs
swelled until they looked like the muscles of the leg of an
antique god, he held his body erect like a young tree and
intoxicated with strength and happiness, he carried his be-
loved burden as far as the footpath where he put her down.

PROLIFICACY IS3

"You will strain yourself, sweetheart," she said, making
a vain attempt to free herself from his encircling arms.

"Never, you darling I I could carry you to the end of the
earth, and I shall carry you, all of you, no matter how many
you are now, or how many you may yet become."

And they returned home, arm in arm, their hearts singing
with gladness.

"If the worst comes to the worst, sweet love, one must
admit that it is very easy to jump that abyss which sepa-
rates body and soul I"

"What a thing to say I"

"If I had only realised it before, 1 should have been less
unhappy. Oh! those idealists!"

And they entered their cottage.

The good old times had returned and had, apparently,
come to stay. The husband went to work to his office as
before. They lived again through love's spring time. No
doctor was required and the high spirits never flagged.

After the third christening, however, he came to the con-
clusion that matters were serious and started playing his
old game with the inevitable results: doctor, sick-leave,
riding-exercise, port! But there must be an end of it, at
all costs. Every time the balance-sheet showed a deficit.

But when, finally, his whole nervous system went out of
joint, he let nature have her own way. Immediately ex-
penses went up and he was beset with difficulties.

He was not a poor man, it is true, but on the other hand
he was not blest with too many of this world^s riches.

"To tell you the truth, old girl," he said to his wife, "it
will be the same old story over again."

"I am afraid it will, my dear," replied the poor woman,
who, in addition to her duties as a mother, had to do the
whole work of the house now.

After the birth of her fourth child, the work grew too
hard for her and a nursemaid had to be engaged.

"Now it must stop," avowed the disconsolate husband.
"This must be the last."

Poverty looked in at the door. The foundations on which
the house was built were tottering.

And thus, at the age of thirty, in the very prime of their

IS4 PROLIFICACY

life, the young husband and wife found themselves con-
demned to celibacy. He grew moody, his complexion be^
came grey and his eyes lost their lustre. Her rich beauty
faded, her fine figure wasted away, and she suffered all the
sorrows of a mother who sees her children growing up in
poverty and rags.

One day, as she was standing in the kitchen, frying her-
rings, a neighbour called in for a friendly chat.

"How are you?^' she began.

"Thank you, I'm not up to very much. How are you?"

"Oh! I'm not at all well. Married life is a misery if
one has to be constantly on one's guard."

"Do you think you are the only one?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know what my husband said to me the other
day? One ought to spare the draught cattle I And I suffer
under it all, I can tell you. No, there's no happiness in
marriage. Either husband or wife is bound to suffer. It's
one or the other I"

"Or both!"

"But what about the men of science who grow fat at the
expense of the Government?"

"They have to think of so many things, and moreover, it
is improper to write about such problems; they must not
be discussed openly."

"But that would be the first necessity!"

And the two women fell to discussing their bitter experi-
ences.

In the following summer they were compelled to remain
in town; they were living in a basement with a view of the
gutter, the smell of whidh was so objectionable that it was
impossible to keep the windows open.

The wife did needlework in the same room in which the
children were pla3dng; the husband, who had lost his ap-
pointment on account of his extreme shabbiness, was copy-
ing a manuscript in the adjoining room, and grumbling at
the children's noise. Hard words were bandied through the
open door.

It was Whitsuntide. In the afternoon the husband was
lying on the ragged leather sofa, gazing at a window on the

PROLIFICACY 155

other side of the street. He was watching a woman of evil
reputation who was dressing for her evening stroll. A spray
of lilac and two oranges were lying by the side of her look-
ing-glass.

She was fastening her dress without taking the least no-
tice of his inquisitive glances.

"She's not having a bad time," mused the celibate, sud-
denly kindled into passion. "One lives but once in this
world, and one must live one's life, happen what will!"

His wife entered the room and caught sight of the object
of his scrutiny. Her eyes blazed; the last feeble sparks of
her dead love glowed under the ashes and revealed them-
selves in a temporary flash of jealousy.

"Hadn't we better take the children to the Zoo?" she
asked.

"To make a public show of our misery? No, thank you! "

"But it's so hot in here. I shall have to pull down the
blinds."

"You had better open a window!"

He divined his wife's thoughts and rose to do it himself.
Out there, on the edge of the pavement, his four little ones
were sitting, in dose proximity of the waste pipes. Their
feet were in the dry gutter, and they were playing with
orange peels which Uiey had found in the sweepings of the
road. The sight stabbed his heart, and he felt a lump rising
in his throat. But poverty had so blunted his feelings that
he remained standing at the window with his arms crossed.

All at once two filthy streams gushed from the waste
pipes, inundated the gutter and saturated the feet of the
children who screamed, half suffocated by the stench.

"Get the children ready as quickly as you can," he called,
giving way at the heart-rending scene.

The father pushed the perambulator with the baby, the
other children clung to the hands and skirts of the mother.

They arrived at the cemetery with its dark-stemmed
lime-trees, their usual place of refuge; here the trees grew
luxuriantly, as if the soil were enriched by the bodies which
lay buried underneath it.

The bells were ringing for evening prayers. The inmates
of the poorhouse flowed to the church and sat down in the

156 PROLIFICACY

pews left vacant by their wealthy owners, who had attended
to their souls at die principal service of the day, and were
now driving in their carriages to the Royal Deer Park.

The children climbed about the shallow graves, most of
which were decorated with armorial bearings and inscrip-
tions.

Husband and wife sat down on a seat and placed (he
perambulator, in which the baby lay sucking at its bottle,
by their side. Two puppies were disporting themselves cm
a grave close by, half hidden by the high grass.

A young and well dressed couple, leading by the hand a
little girl clothed in silk and velvet, passed the seat on
which they sat. The poor copyist raised his eyes to the
young dandy and recognised a former colleague from the
Board of Trade who, however, did not seem to see him.
A feeling of bitter envy seized him with such intensity that
he felt more humiliated by this 'ignoble sentiment'' than
by his deplorable condition. Was he angry with the other
man because he filled a position which he himself had
coveted? Surely not. But possibly his envy was the re-
verse of a sense of justice, and his suffering was all the
deeper because it was shared by the whole class of the
disinherited. He was convinced that the inmates of the
poorhouse, bowed down under the yoke of public charity,
envied his wife; and he was quite sure that many of the
aristocrats who slept all around him in their graves, under
their coats of arms, would have envied him Ws children if
it had been their lot to die without leaving an heir to their
estates. Certainly, nobody under the sun enjoyed com-
plete happiness, but why did the plums always fall to the
lot of those who were already sitting in the lap of luxury?
And how was it that the prizes always fell to the organisers
of the great lottery? The disinherited had to be content
with the mass said at evening prayers; to their share fell
morality and those virtues which the others despised and of
which they had no need because the gates of heaven opened
readily enough to their wealth. But what about the good
and just God who had distributed His gifts so unevenly?
It would be better, indeed, to live one's life without this
unjust God, who had, moreover, candidly admitted that

PROLIFICACY 157

the "wind blew where it listed"; had He not himself con-
fessed, in these words, that He did not interfere in the con-
:ems of man? But failing the church, where should we
look for comfort? And yet, why ask for comfort?
Wouldn't it be far better to strive to make such arrange-
ments that no comfort was needed? Wouldn't it?

His speculations were interrupted by his eldest daughter
who asked him for a leaf of the lime-tree, which she wanted
for a sunshade for her doll. He stepped on the seat and
raised his hand to break off a little twig, when a constable
appeared and rudely ordered him not to touch the trees.
\ fresh humiliation. At the same time the constable re-
quested him not to allow his children to play on the graves^
winch was against the regulations.

"We'd better go home," said the distressed father. "How
carefully they guard the interests of the dead, and how
indifferent they are to the interests of the living."

And they returned home.

He sat down and began to work. He had to copy the
manuscript of an academical treatise on over-population.

The subject interested him and he read the contents of
the whole book.

The young author who belonged to what was called the
ethical school, was preaching against vice.

"What vice?" mused the copyist. "That which is re-
sponsible for our existence? Which the priest orders us to
indulge in at every wedding when he says: Be fruitful and
multiply and fill the earth?"

The manuscript ran on: Propagation, without holy mat-
rimony, is a destructive vice, because the fate of the chil-
iren, who do not receive proper care and nursing, is a sad
3ne. In the case of married couples, on the other hand, it
becomes a sacred duty to indulge one's desires. This is
Droved, among other things, by the fact that the law pro-
tects even the female ovum, and it is right that it should
De so.

"Consequently," thought the copyist, "there is a provi-
dence for legitimate children, but not for illegitimate ones.
3h! this young philosopher! And the law which protects
the female ovum I What business, then, have those micro-

158 PROLIFICACY

scopic things to detach themselves at every change of the
moon? Those sacred objects ought to be most carefully
guarded by the police I"

All these futilities he had to copy in his best handwriting.

They overflowed with morality, but contained not a
single word of enlightenment.

The moral or ratfier the immoral gist of the whole argu-
ment was: There is a God who feeds and clothes all chil-
dren bom in wedlock; a God in His heaven, probably, but
what about the earth? Certainly, it was said that He came
to earth once and allowed himself to be crucified, after
vainly trying to establish something like order in the con-
fused affairs of mankind; He did not succeed.

The philosopher wound up by screaming himself hoarse
in trying to convince his audience that the abundant supply
of wheat was an irrefutable proof that the problem of over-
population did not exist; that the doctrine of Malthus
was not only false, but criminal, socially as well as morally.

And the poor father of a family who had not tasted
wheaten bread for years, laid down the manuscript and
urged his little ones to fill themselves with gruel made of
rye flour and bluish milk, a dish which satisfied their crav-
ing, but contained no nourishment.

He was wretched, not because he considered water gruel
objectionable, but because he had lost his precious sense of
humour, that magician who can transform the dark rye into
golden wheat; almighty love, emptying his horn of plenty
over his poor home, had vanished. The children had be-
come burdens, and the once beloved wife a secret enemy
despised and despising him.

And the cause of all this unhappiness? The want of
bread! And yet the large store houses of the new world
were breaking down under the weight of the over-abundant
supply of wheat. What a world of contradictions! The
manner in which bread was distributed must be at fault.

Science, which has replaced religion, has no answer to
give; it merely states facts and allows the children to die
of hunger and the parents of thirst.

AUTUMN

THEY had been married for ten years. Happfly? Well,
as happily as circumstances permitted. They had
been running in double harness, like two young oxen of
equal strength, each of which is conscientiously doing his
own share.

During the first year of their marriage they buried many
illusions and realised that marriage was not perfect bliss.
In the second year the babies began to arrive, and the daily
toil left them no time for brooding.

He was very domesticated, perhaps too much so; his
family was his world, the centre and pivot of which he was.
The children were the radii. His wife attempted to be a
centre, too, but never in the middle of the circle, for that
was exclusively occupied by him, and therefore the radii
fell now on the top of one another, now far apart, and their
life lacked harmony.

In the tenth year of their marriage he obtained the post
of secretary to the Board of Prisons, and in that capacity
he was obliged to travel about the country. This interfered
seriously with his daily routine; the thought of leaving his
world for a whole month upset him. He wondered whom
he would miss more, his wife or his children, and he was
sure he would miss them both.

On the eve of his departure he sat in the comer of the
sofa and watched his portmanteau being packed. His wife
was kneeling on the floor by the side of a little pile of un-
derclothing. She brushed Us black suit and folded it care-
fully, so that it should take up as little space as possible.
He had no idea how to do these things.

She had never looked upon herself as his housekeeper,
hardly as his wife, she was above all things mother: a
mother to the children, a mother to him. She darned his
socks without the slightest feeling of degradation, and asked
for no thanks. She never even considered him indebted to

159

i6o AUTUMN

her for it, for did he not give her and the chfldren new
stockings whenever they wanted them, and a great many
other diings into the bargain? But for him, she wotdd
have to go out and earn her own living, and the chfldien
would be left alone all day.

He sat in the sofa comer and looked at her. Now that
the parting was imminent, he began to feel premature little
twinges of longing. He gazed at her figure. Her shouldefS
were a little rounded; much bending over the cradle, ironing
board and kitchen range had robbed her back of its straight-
ness. He, too, stooped a little, the result of his toil at the
writing-table, and he was obliged to wear spectacles. But
at the moment he really was not thinking of himself. He
noticed that her plaits were thinner than they had been and
that a faint suggestion of silver lay on her hair. Had she
sacrificed her beauty to him, to him alone? No, surely not
to him, but to the little community which they formed; for,
after all, she had also worked for herself. His hair, too,
had grown thin in the struggle to provide for all of them.
He might have retained his youth a little longer, if there
hadn't been so many mouths to fill, if he had remained a
bachelor; but he didn't regret his marriage for one second

"It will be a good thing for you to get away for a bit,"
said his wife; "you have been too mud^ at home."

"I suppose you are glad to get rid of me," he replied, not
without bitterness; "but I — I shall miss you very much."

"You are like a cat, you'll miss your cosy fireside, but
not me; you know you won't."

"And the kiddies?"

"Oh, yes! I daresay you'll miss them when you are
away, for all your scolding when you are with them. No,
no, I don't mean that you are unkind to them, but you do
grumble a lotl All the same I won't be unjust, and I know
that you love them."

At supper he was very tired and depressed. He didnt
read the evening paper, he wanted to talk to his wife. But
she was too busy to pay much attention to him; she had no
time to waste; moreover, her ten years' campaign in kitchen
and nursery had taught her self-control.

He felt more sentimental than he cared to show, and the

AUTUMN i6i

;;opsy-turvydom of the room made him fidgety. Scraps of
lis daily life lay scattered all over chairs and chests of
irawers; his black portmanteau yawned wide-open like a
:o£fin; his white linen was carefully laid on the top of his
Dlack suit, which showed slight traces of wear and tear at
:he knees and elbows. It seemed to him that he himself
¥as lying there, wearing a white shirt with a starched front.
Presently they would close the coSin and carry it away.

On the following morning — it was in August — ^he rose
jarly and dressed hurriedly. His nerves were imstrung.
He went into the nursery and kissed the children who stared

him with sleepy eyes. Then he kissed his wife, got into
I cab, and told Uie driver to drive him to the station.

The journey, which he made in the company of his
Board, did him good; it really was a good thing for him to
yet out of his groove; domesticity lay behind him like a
jtuffy bedroom, and on the arrival of the train at Linkoping
le was in high spirits.

An excellent dinner had been ordered at the best hotel and
he remainder of the day was spent in eating it. They
Irank the health of the Lord Lieutenant; no one thought of
he prisoners on whose behalf the journey had been under-
aken.

Dinner over, he had to face a lonely evening in his soli-
ary room. A bed, two chairs, a table, a washing-stand and
I wax candle, which threw its dim light on bare walls. He
:ouldn*t suppress a feeling of nervousness. He missed all
lis little comforts, — ^slippers, dressing-gown, pipe rack and
rating table; all the little details which played an im-
X)rtant part in his daily life. And the kiddies? And his
dfe? What were they doing? Were they all right? He
>ecame restless and depressed. When he wanted to wind up
lis watch, he found that he had left his watch-key at home.
t was hanging on the watch-stand which his wife had given
lim before they were married. He went to bed and lit a
jgar. Then he wanted a book out of his portmanteau and
le had to get up again. Everything was packed so beauti-
ully, it was a pity to disturb it. In looking for the book,
le came across his slippers. She had forgotten nothing.
rhen he found the book. But he couldn't read. He lay in

i62 AUTUMN

bed and thought of the past, of his wife, as she bad been
ten years ago. He saw her as she had been then; the pic-
ture of her, as she now was, disappeared in the blue-grey
clouds of smoke which rose in rings and wreaths to the
rain-stained ceiling. An infinite yearning came over him.
Every harsh word he had ever spoken to her now grated on
his ears; he thought remorsefully of every hour of anguish
he had caused her. At last he fell asleep.

The following day brought much work and another ban-
quet with a toast to the Prison-Governor — ^the prisoners
were still unremembered. In the evening solitude, empti-
ness, coldness. He felt a pressing need to talk to her. He
fetched some notepaper and sat down to write. But at the
very outset he was confronted by a difficulty. How was he
to address her? Whenever he had sent her a few lines to
say that he would not be home for dinner, he had always
called her "Dear Mother." But now he was not going to
write to the mother, but to his fiancee, to his beloved one.
At last he made up his mind and commenced his letter with
"My Darling Lily," as he had done in the old days. At
first he wrote slowly and with difficulty, for so many beauti^
f ul words and phrases seemed to have disappeared from the
clumsy, dry language of every-day life; but as he wanned
to his work, they awakened in his memory like forgotten
melodies, valse tunes, fragments of poems, elder-blossoms,
and swallows, sunsets on a mirror-like sea. All his mem-
ories of the springtime of life came dancing along in clouds
of gossamer and enveloped her. He drew a cross at the
bottom of the page, as lovers do, and by the side of it he
wrote the words: "Kiss here."

When the letter was finished and he read it through, his
cheeks burnt and he became self-conscious. He couldn't
account for the reason.

But somehow he felt that he had shown his naked soul to
a stranger.

In spite of this feeling he posted the letter.

A few days elapsed before he received a reply. While
he was waiting for it, he was a prey to an almost childish
bashfulness and embarrassment.

At last the answer came. He had struck the right note,

AUTUMN 163

and from the din and clamour of the nursery, and the
fumes and smell of the kitchen, a song arose, clear and
beautiful, tender and pure, like first love.

Now an exchange of love-letters began. He wrote to her
every night, and sometimes he sent her a postcard as well
during the day. His colleagues didn't know what to think
of him. He was so fastidious about his dress and personal
appearance, that they suspected him of a love affair. And
he was in love — in love again. He sent her his photograph,
without the spectacles, and she sent him a lock of her hair.
Their language was simple like a child's, and he wrote on
coloured paper ornamented with little doves. Why shouldn't
they? They were a long way off forty yet, even though the
struggle for an existence had made them feel that they
were getting old. He had neglected her during the last
twelvemonth, not so much from indifference as from re-
spect—he always saw in her the mother of his children.

The tour of inspection was approaching its end. He was
conscious of a certain feeling of apprehension when he
thought of their meeting. He had corresponded with his
sweetheart; should he find her in the mother and housewife?
He dreaded a disappointment. He shrank at the thought
of finding her with a kitchen towel in her hand, or the chil-
dren dinging to her skirts. Their first meeting must be
somewhere else, and they must meet alone. Should he ask
her to join him at Waxholm, in the Stockholm Archipelago^
at the hotel where they had spent so many happy hours
during the period of their engagement? Splendid ideal
There they could, for two whole days, re-live in memory
the first beautiful spring days of dieir lives, which, had
flown, never to return again.

He sat down and made the suggestion in an impassioned
love-letter. She answered by return agreeing to his pro-
posal, happy that the same idea had occurred to both of
them.

Two da3rs later he arrived at Waxholm and engaged
rooms at the hotel. It was a beautiful September day. He
dined alone, in the great dining-room, drank a glass of wine
and fdt young again. Everything was so bright and beau-

164 AUTUMN

tiful. There was the blue sea outside; only the birch trees
on the shore had changed their tints. In the garden the
dahlias were still in full splendour, and the perfume of the
mignonette rose from the borders of the flower beds. A
few bees still visited the dying calyces but returned disap-
pointed to their hives. The fishing boats sailed up the
Sound before a faint breeze, and in tacking the sails flut-
tered and the sheets shook; the startled seagulls rose into
the air screaming, and circled round the fishermen who were
fishing from their boats for small herring.

He drank his coffee on the verandah, and began to look
out for the steamer which was due at six o'clock.

Restlessly, apprehensively, he paced the verandah, anx-
iously watching fiord and Sound on the side where Stock-
holm lay, so as to sight the steamer as soon as she came
into view.

At last a little cloud of smoke showed like a dark patch
on the horizon. His heart thumped against his ribs and he
drank a liqueur. Then he went down to the shore.

Now he could see the funnel right in the centre of the
Sound, and soon after he noticed the flag on the fore-top-
mast . . . Was she really on the steamer, or had she
been prevented from keeping the tryst? It was only neces-
sary for one of the children to be ill, and she wouldn't be
there, and he would have to spend a solitary night at the
hotel. The children, who during the last few weeks had
receded into the background, now stepped between her and
him. They had hardly mentioned them in their last let-
ters, just as if they had been anxious to be rid of all eye-
witnesses and spoil-sports.

He stamped on the creaking landing-stage and then re-
mained standing motionless near a bollard staring straight
at the steamer which increased in size as she approached,
followed in her wake by a river of molten gold that spread
over the blue, faintly rippled expanse.

Now he could distinguish people on the upper deck, a
moving crowd, and sailors busy with the ropes, now a flut-
tering speck of white near the wheel-house. There was no
one besides him on the landing-stage, the moving white
speck could only be meant for him, and no one would wave

AUTUMN 165

to him but her. He pulled out his handkerchief and an-
swered her greeting, and in doing so he noticed that his
handkerchief was not a white one; he had been using col-
oured ones for years for the sake of economy.

The steamer whistled, signalled, the engines stopped, she
came alongside, and now he recognised her. Their eyes met
in greeting; the distance was still too great for words. Now
he could see her being pushed slowly by the crowd across
the little bridge. It was she, and yet it wasn't.

Ten years stretched between her and the picture of her
which he had had in his mind. Fashion had changed, the
cut of the clothes was different. Ten years ago her delicate
face with its olive complexion was framed by the cap which
was then worn, and which left the forehead free; now her
forehead was hidden by a wicked imitation of a bowler hat.
Ten years ago the beautiful lines of her figure were clearly
definable under the artistic draperies of her cloak which
playfully now hid, now emphasised the curve of her shoul-
ders and the movement of her arms; now her figure was
completely disguised by a long driving coat which followed
the lines of her dress but completely concealed her figure.
As she stepped off the landing-bridge, he caught sight of
her little foot with which he had fallen in love, when it was
encased in a buttoned boot, shaped on natural lines; the
shoe which she was now wearing resembled a pointed
Chinese slipper, and did not allow her foot to move in those
dancing rhythms which had bewitched him.

It was she and yet it was not she! He embraced and
kissed her. She enquired after his health and he asked after
the children. Then they walked up the strand.

Words came slowly and sounded dry and forced. How
strange I They were almost shy in each other's presence^
and neither of them mentioned the letters.

In the end he took heart of grace and asked:

"Would you like to go for a walk before sunset?"

"I should love to," she replied, taking his arm.

They went along the high-road in the direction of the
little town. The shutters of all the summer residences were
closed; the gardens plundered. Here and there an apple^
hidden among the foliage, might still be found hanging on

i66 AUTUMN

the treeSy but there wasn't a single flower in the flower beds.
The verandahs, stripped of their sunblinds, looked Vkt
skeletons; where there had been bright eyes and gay lan^
ter, silence reigned.

"How autumnal!" she said.

"Yes, the forsaken villas look horrible."

They walked on.

"Let us go and look at the house where we used to live.''

"Oh, yes! It will be fun."

They passed the bathing vans.

Over there, squeezed in between the pilot's and the gar-
dener's cottages, stood the little house with its red fence, its
verandah and its little garden.

Memories of past days awoke. There was the bedroom
where their first baby had been bom. What rejoidngl
What laughter I Oh! youth and gaiety! The rose-tree
which they had planted was still there. And the strawberry-
bed which they had made — ^no, it existed no longer, grass
had grown over it. In the little plantation traces of the
swing which they had put up were still visible, but the
swing itself had disappeared.

"Thank you so much for your beautiful letters," she said,
gently pressing his arm.

He blushed and made no reply.

Then they returned to the hotel, and he told her anec-
dotes, in connection with his tour.

He had ordered dinner to be served in the large dining-
room at the table where they used to sit. They sat down
without saying grace.

It was a tete-li-tete dinner. He took the bread-basket and
offered her the bread. She smiled. It was a long time since
he had been so attentive. But dinner at a seaside hotel
was a pleasant change and soon they were engaged in a
lively conversation. It was a duet in which one of them
extolled the days that had gone, and the other revived mem-
ories of "once upon a time." They were re-living the past*
Their eyes shone and the little lines in their faces disap-
peared. Oh! golden days! Oh! time of roses which corner
but once, if it comes at all, and which is denied to so many
of us — so many of us.

AUTUMN i6y

At dessert he whispered a few words into die ear of the
waitress; she disappeared and returned a few seconds later
with a bottle of champagne.

"My dear Axel, what are you thinking of?"

"I am thinking of the spring that has past, but will returo
again."

But he wasn't thinking of it exclusively, for at his wife's
reproachful words there glided through the room, catlike,
a dim vision of the nursery and the porridge bowl.

However — the atmosphere cleared again; the golden wine
stirred their memories, and again they lost themsdves in
the intoxicating rapture of the past.

He leaned his elbow on the table and shaded his eyes with
his hand, as if he were determined to shut out the present —
this very present which, — after all, had been of his own
seeking.

The hours passed. They left the dining-room and went
into the drawing-room which boasted a piano, ordering their
coffee to be brought there.

"I wonder bow the kiddies are?" said she, awakening
to the hard facts of real life.

"Sit down and sing to me," he answered, opening the
instrument.

"What would you like me to sing? You know I haven't
sung a note for many days."

He was well aware of it, but he did want a song.

She sat down before the piano and began to play. It
was a squeaking instrument that reminded one of the rat-
tling of loose teeth.

"What shall I sing?" she asked, tiuning round on the
music-stool.

"You know, darling," he replied, not daring to meet her
eyes.

"Your song! Very well, if I can remember it." And she
sang: "Where is the blessed country where my beloved
dweUs?"

But alas! Her voice was thin and shrill and emotion
made her sing out of tune. At times it sounded like a cry
from the bottom of a soul which feels that noon is past and
evening aj^roaching. The fingers which had done hard

i68 AUTUMN

work strayed on the wrong keys. The mstniment, too, had
seen its best days; the cloth on the hammers had worn
away; it sounded as if the springs touched the bare wood.

When she had finished her song, she sat for a while with-
out turning round, as if she expected him to come and speak
to her. But he didn't move; not a soimd broke the deep
silence. When she turned round at last, she saw him sitting
on the sofa, his cheeks wet with tears. She felt a strong im-
pulse to jump up, take his head between her hands and kiss
him as she had done in days gone by, but she remained
where she was, immovable, with downcast eyes.

He held a cigar between his thumb and first finger.
When the song was finished, he bit off the end and struck
a match.

"Thank you, Lily," he said, puffing at his dgar, "will
you have your coffee now?"

They drank their coffee, talked of summer holidays in
general and suggested two or three places where they might
go next summer. But their conversation languished and
they repeated themselves.

At last he yawned openly and said: "I'm off to bed."

"I'm going, too," she said, getting up. "But I'll get a
breath of fresh air first, on the balcony."

He went into the bed-room. She lingered for a few mo-
ments in the dining-room, and then talked to the landlady
for about half an hour of spring-onions and woollen under-
wear.

When the landlady had left her she went into the bed-
room and stood for a few minutes at the door, listening.
No sound came from within. His boots stood in the cor-
ridor. She opened the door gently and went in. He was
asleep.

He was asleep!

At breakfast on the following morning he had a head-
ache, and she fidgeted.

"What horrible coffee," he said, with a grimace.

"Brazilian," she said, shortly.

"What shall we do to-day?" he asked, looking at his
watch.

AUTUMN 169

"Hadn't you better eat some bread and butter, instead of
grumbling at the coffee?" she said.

"Perhaps you're right," he answered, "and I'll have a
liqueur at the same time. That champagne last night,
ughl" .

He asked for bread and butter and a liqueur and his
temper improved.

"Let's go to the Pilot's Hill and look at the view."

They rose from the breakfast table and went out.

The weather was splendid and the walk did them good»
But they walked slowly; she panted, and his knees were
stiff; they drew no more parallels with the past.

They walked across the fields. The grass had been cut
long ago, there wasn't a single flower anywhere. They sat
down on some large stones.

He talked of the Board of Prisons and his office. She
talked of the children.

Then they walked on in silence. He looked at his watch.

"Three hours yet till dinner time," he said. And he
wondered how they could kill time on the next day.

They returned to the hotel. He asked for the papers^
She sat down by the side of him with a smile on her
lips.

They talked little during dinner. After dinner she men-
tioned the servants.

"For heaven's sake, leave the servants alone!" he ex-
claimed.

"Surely we haven't come here to quarrel I"

"Am I quarrelling?"

"WeU, I'mnotl"

An awkward pause followed. He wished somebody would
come. The children 1 Yesl This t£te-a-tete embarrassed
him, but he felt a pain in his heart when he thought of the
bri^t hours of yesterday.

"Let's go to Oak Hill," she said, "and gather wild straw-
berries."

"There are no wild strawberries at this time of the year,
it's autumn."

"Let's go all the same."

And they went. But conversation was difficult. His eyes

170 AUTUMN

searched for some object on the roadside which would serve
for a peg on which to hang a remark, but there was nothiag.
There was no subject which they hadn't discussed. She
knew all his views on everything and disagreed with most of
them. She longed to go home, to the children, to her o>wa
fireside. She found it absurd to make a spectacle of herself
in this place and be on the verge of a quarrel with her hus-
band all the time.

After a while they stopped, for they were tired. He sat
down and began to write in the sand with his walking stick.
He hoped she would provoke a scene.

"What are you thinking of?" she asked at last.

"I?" he rq)lied, feeling as if a burden were falling oft
his shoulders, "I am thinking that we are getting old,
mother: our innings are over, and we have to be content
with what has been. If you are of the same mind, well go
home by the night boat."

''I have thought so all along, old man, but I wanted to
please you."

"Then come along, well go home. It's no k>nger sum-
mer, autumn is here."

They returned to the hotel, much relieved.

He was a little embarrassed on account of the prosaic
ending of the adventure, and felt an irresistible longing to
justify it from a philosophical standpoint.

"You see, mother," he said, "my lo— h'm" (the word was
too strong) "my affection for you has undergone a change
in the course of time. It has developed, broadened; at first
it was centred on the individual, but later on, on the family
as a whole. It is not now you, personally, that I love, nor
is it the children, but it is ibe whole . . .

"Yes, as my uncle used to say, children are lightning
conductors!"

After his philosophical explanation he became his old
self again. It was pleasant to take off his frock coat; he
felt as if he were getting into his dressing-gown.

When they entered the hotel, she began at once to pack,
and there she was in her element.

They went downstairs into the saloon as soon as they got
on board. For appearance sake, however, he asked her

AUTUMN ^7^

whether she would like to w^tch the sunset; but she de*
dined.

At supper he helped himself first, and she asked the wait-
ress the price of black bread.

When he had finished his supper, he remained sitting at
the table, lingering over a glass of porter. A thought which
had amused him for some time, would no longer be sup-
pressed.

''Old fool, what?" he said, lifting his glass and smiling at
his wife who happened to look at hhn at the moment.

She did not return his smile but her eyes, which had
flashed for a second, assumed so withering an expression
of dignity that he felt crushed.

The spell was broken, the last trace of his old love had
vanished; he was sitting opposite the mother of his chil-
dren; he felt small.

''No need to look down upon me because I have made a
fool of myself for a moment," she said gravely. "But in
a man's love there is always a good deal of contempt; it is
strange."

"And in the love of a woman?"

"Even more, it is true I But then, she has every cause."

"It's the same thing — ^with a difference. Probably both
of them are wrong. That which one values too highly,
because it is difficult of attainment, is easily imderrated
when one has obtained it."

"Why does one value it too highly?"

"Why is it so difficult of attainment?"

The steam whistle above their heads interrupted their
conversation.

They landed.

When they had arrived home, and he saw her again
among her diildren, he realised that his affection for her
had undergone a change, and that her affection for him had
been transferred to and divided amongst all these little
screamers. Perhaps her love for him had only been a
means to an end. His part had been a short one, and he
felt deposed. If he had not been required to earn bread
and butter, he would probably have been cast off long
afiro.

172 AUTUMN

He went into his study, put on his dressing->gown and
slippers, lighted his pipe and felt at home.

Outside the wind lashed the rain against the window
panes, and whistled in the chimney.

When the children had been put to bed, his wife came
and sat by him.

"No weather to gather wild strawberries," she said.

"No, my dear, the summer is over and autumn is here."

"Yes, it is autumn," she replied, "but it is not yet winter,
there is comfort in that."

"Very poor comfort if we consider that we live but once."

"Twice when one has children; three times if one lives to
see one's grandchildren."

"And after that, the end."

"Unless there is a life after death."

"We cannot be sure of thatl Who knows? I believe it,
but my faith is no proof."

"But it is good to believe it. Let us have faithi Let us
believe that spring will come again 1 Let us believe it!"

"Yes, let us believe it," he said, gathering her to his
breast.

COMPULSORY MARRIAGE

HIS father died early and from that time forth he was
in the hands of a mother, two sisters and several
aunts. He had no brother. They lived on an estate in the
Swedish province, Soedermanland, and had no neighbours
with whom they coidd be on friendly terms. When he was
seven years old, a governess was engaged to teach him and
his sisters, and about the same time a girl cousin came to
live with them.

He shared his sisters' bedroom, played their games and
went bathing with them; nobody looked upon him as a
member of tibe other sex. Before long his sisters took him
in hand and became his schoolmasters and tyrants.

He was a strong boy to start with, but left to the mercy
of so many doting women, he gradually became a helpless
molly-coddle.

Once he made an attempt to emancipate himself and
went to play with the boys of the cottagers. They spent
the day in tiie woods, climbed the trees, robbecj the birds'
nests and threw stones at the squirrels. Frithiof was as
happy as a released prisoner, and did not come home to
dinner. The boys gathered whortle-berries, and bathed in
the lake. It was the first really enjoyable day of his life.

When he came home in the evening, he found the whole
house in great commotion. His mother though anxious and
upset, did not conceal her joy at his return; Aunt Agatha,
however, a spinster, and his mother's eldest sister, who ruled
the house, was furious. She maintained that it would be a
positive crime not to punish him. Frithiof could not under-
stand why it should be a crime, but his aunt told him that
disobedience was a sin. He protested that he had never
been forbidden to play with tiie children of the cottagers.
She admitted it but said that, of course, there could never
have been two questions about it. And she remained firm,

174 COMPULSORY MARRIAGE

and regardless of his mother's pleading eyes, took him away
to give him a whipping in her own room. He was ei^t
years old and fairly big for his age.

When the aunt toudied his waist-belt to unbutton his
knickers, a cold shiver ran down his back; he ga^)ed and
his heart thumped against his ribs. He made no sound, but
stared, horror-struck, at the old woman who asked him,
almost caressingly, to be obedient and not to offer any re-
sistance. But when she laid hands on his shirt, he grew
hot with shame and fury. He sprang from the sofa on
which she had pushed him, hitting out right and left.
Something unclean, something dark and repulsive, seemed
to emanate from this woman, and the shame of his seK rose
up in him as against an assailant.

But the aunt, mad with passion, seized him, threw him
on a chair and beat him. He screamed with rage, pain he
did not feel, and with convulsive kicks tried to release him-
self; but all of a sudden he lay still and was silent.

When the old woman let him go, he remained where he
was, motionless.

"Get upl" she said, in a broken voice.

He stood up and looked at her. One of her cheeks was
pale, the other crimson. Her eyes glowed strangely and
she trembled all over. He looked at her curiously, as one
might examine a wild beast, and all of a sudden a super-
cilious smile raised his upper lip; it seemed to him as if
his contempt gave him an advantage over her. "She-devill"
He flung the word, newly acquired from the children of the
cottagers, into her face, defiantly and scornfully, seized his
clothes and flew downstairs to his mother, who was sitting
in the dining-room, weeping.

He wanted to open his heart to her and complain of his
aunt's treatment, but she had not the courage to comfort
him. So he went into the kitchen where the maids consoled
him with a handful of currants.

From this day on he was no longer allowed to sleep in
the nursery with his sisters, but his mother had his bed
removed to her own bedroom. He found his mother's room
stuffy and the new arrangement dull; she frequently dis-
turbed his sleep by getting up and coming to his bed in the

COMPULSORY MARRIAGE 17S

night to see whether he was covered up; then he flew into a
rage and answered her questions peevi^ly.

He was never allowed to go out without being carefully
wrapped up by someone, and he had so many mufiSers that
he never knew which one to put on. Whenever he tried to
steal out of the house, someone was sure to see him from
the window and call him back to put on an over-
coat.

By and by his sisters' games began to bore him. His
strong arms no longer wanted to play battledore and shuttle-
cock, they longed to throw stones. The squabbles over a
petty game of croquet, which demanded neither musde
nor brain, irritated him.

The governess was another one of his trials. She always
spoke to him in French and he invariably answered her in
Swedish. A vague disgust with his whole life and sur-
roundings began to stir in him.

The free and easy manner in which everybody behaved
in his presence offended him, and he retaliated by heartily
loathing all with whom he came in contact. His mother
was the only one who considered his feelings to a certain
extent: she had a big screen put round his b^.

Ultimately the kitchen and the servants' hall became his
refuge; there everything he did was approved of. Oc-
casionally, of course, matters were discussed there which
might have aroused a boy's curiosity, but for him there
were no secrets. On one occasion, for instance, he had acci-
dentally come to the maids' bathing-place. The governess,
who was with him, screamed, he could not understand why,
but he stopped and talked to the girls who were standing or
lying about in the water. Their nudity made no impression
upon him.

He grew up into a youth. An inspector was engaged to
teach him farming for he was, of course, to take over the
management of ibe estate in due time. They chose an old
man who held the orthodox faith. The old man's society
was not exactly calculated to stimulate a young man's
brain, but it was an improvement on the old donditions. It
opened new points of view to him and roused him to ac-
tivity. But the inspector received dafly a&d hourly so

i

176 COMPULSORY MARRIAGE

many instructions from the ladies, that he ended by being
nothing but their mouth-piece.

At the age of fifteen Frithiof was confirmed, received a
present of a gold watch and was allowed to go out on horse^
back; he was not permitted, however, to realise his greatest
ambition, namely to go shooting. True, there was no longer
any fear of a whipping from his arch-enemy, but he dreaded
his mother's tears. He always remained a child, and never
managed to throw off the habit of giving way to the judg-
ment of other people.

The years passed; he had attained his twentieth year.
One day he was standing in the kitchen watching the cook,
who was busy scaling a perch. She was a pretty young
woman with a delicate complexion. He was teasing her and
finally put his hand down her back.

"Do behave yourself, now, Mr. Frithiof," said the girl.

"But I am behaving myself," he replied, becoming more
and more familiar.

"If mistress should see you I"

"Well supposing she did?"

At this moment his mother passed the open kitchen door;
she instantly turned away and walked across the 3rard.

Frithiof found the situation awkward and slui^ away to
his bed-room.

A new gardener entered their service. In their wisdom,
anxious to avoid trouble with the maids, the ladies had
chosen a married man. But, as misfortune would have it,
the gardener had been married long enough to be the father
of an exceedingly pretty young daughter.

Frithiof quickly discovered 3ie sweet blossom among the
other roses in the garden, and poured out all the good-will
which lay stored up in his heart for that half of humanity
to which he did not belong, on this young girl, who was
rather well developed and not without education.

He spent a good deal of his time in the garden and
stopped to talk to her whenever he found her working at
one of the flower-beds or cutting flowers. She did not re-
spond to his advances, but this only had the effect of stimu-
lating his passion.

One day he was riding through the wood, haunted, as

COMPULSORY MARRIAGE 177

usual, by visions of her loveliness which, in his opinion,
reached the very pinnacle of perfection. He was si(± with
longing to meet her alone, freed from all fear of incurring
some watcher's displeasure. In his heated imagination the
desire of being near her had assumed such enormous pro-
portions, that he felt that life without her would be im-
possible.

He held the reins loosely in his hand, and the horse
picked his way leisurely while its rider sat on its back
wrapped in deep thought. All of a sudden something light
appeared between the trees and the gardener's daughter
emerged from the underwood and stepped out on the foot-
path.

Frithiof dismounted and took off his hat. They walked
on, side by side, talking, while he dragged his horse behind
him. He spoke in vague words of his love for her; but she
rejected all his advances.

"Why should we talk of the impossible ?'* she asked.

"What is impossible?" he exclaimed.

"That a wealthy gentleman like you should marry a poor
girl like me."

There was no denying the aptitude of her remark, and
Frithiof felt that he was worsted. His love for her was
boimdless, but he could see no possibility of bringing his
doe safely through the pack which guarded house and
home; they would tear her to pieces.

After this conversation he gave himself up to mute de-
spair.

In the autumn the gardener gave notice and left the
estate without giving a reason. For six weeks Frithiof was
inconsolable, for he had lost his first and only love; be
would never love again.

In this way the autumn slowly passed and winter stood
before the door. At Christmas a new officer of health came
into the neighbourhood. He had grown-up children, and
as the aimts were always ill, friendly relations were soon
established between the two families. Among the doctor's
children was a young girl and before long Fritibiof was head
over ears in love with her. He was at first ashamed of his
infidelity to his first love, but he soon came to the con-

178 COMPULSORY MARRIAGE

elusion that love was something impersonal, because it was
possible to change the object of one's tenderness; it was
almost like a power of attorney made out on the holder.

As soon as his guardians got wind of this new attach-
ment, the mother asked her son for a private interview.

"You have now arrived at that age," she began, "when a
man begins to look out for a wife."

"I have already done that, my dear mother," he relied.

"I'm afraid you've been too hasty," she said. "The girl
of whom, I suppose, you are thinking, doesn't possess the
moral principles which an educated man should demand."

"What? Amy's moral principles! Who has anjrthing
to say against them?"

"I won't say a word against the girl herself, but her
father, as you know, is a freethinker."

"I shall be proud to be related to a man who can think
freely, without considering his material interests."

"Well, let's leave him out of the question; you are for-
getting, my dear Frithiof, that you are already bound else-
where."

"What? Do you mean. ..."

"Yes; you have played with Louisa's heart."

"Are you talking of cousin Louisa?"

"I am. Haven't you looked upon yourselves as fianc&
since your earliest diildhood? Don't you realise that die
has put all her faith and trust in you?"

"It's you who have played with us, driven us together,
not II " answered the son.

"Think of your old mother, think of your sisters, Frithiof.
Do you want to bring a stranger into this house which has
always been our home, a stranger who will have the right
to order us about?"

"Oh! I see; Louisa is the chosen mistress!"

"There's no chosen mistress, but a mother always has a
right to choose the future wife of her son; nobody is so
well fitted to undertake such a task. Do you doubt my
good faith? Can you possibly suspect me, your mother,
of a wish to injure you?"

"No, no! but I — I don't love Louisa; I like her as a
sister, but ..."

COMPULSORY MARRIAGE 179

"Love? Nothing in all the world is so inconstant as
love! It's folly to rely on it, it passes away like a breath;
but friendship, conformity of views and habits, similar in-
terests and a long acquaintanceship, these are the surest
guarantees of a happy marriage. Louisa is a capable girl,
domesticated and methodical, she will make your home as
happy as you could wish."

Frithiof 's only way of escape was to beg his mother for
time to consider the matter.

Meanwhile all the ladies of the household had recovered
their health, so that the doctor was no longer required.
Still he called one day, but he was treated like a burglar
9fho had come to spy out the land. He was a sharp man
and saw at once how matters stood. Frithiof returned his
call but was received coldly. This was the end of their
friendly relations.

Frithiof came of age.

Frantic attempts were now made to carry the fortress by
storm. The aunts cringed before the new master and tried
to prove to him that they could not be dispensed with, by
treating him as if he were a child. His sisters mothered him
more than ever, and Louisa began to devote a great deal of
attention to her dress. She laced herself tightly and curled
her hair. She was by no means a plain girl, but she had
cold eyes and a sharp tongue.

Fridiiof remained indifferent; as far as he was concerned
she was sexless; he had never looked at her with the eyes of
a man. But now, after the conversation with his mother,
he could not help a certain feeling of embarrassment in her
presence, especially as she seemed to seek his society. He
met her everywhere; on the stairs, in the garden, in the
stables even. One morning, when he was still in bed, she
came into his room to ask him for a pin; she was wearing a
dressing-jacket and pretended to be very shy.

He took a dislike to her, but nevertheless she was always
in his mind.

In the meantime the mother had one conversation after
another with her son, and aunt and sisters never ceased
hinting at the anticipated wedding.

i8o COMPULSORY MARRIAGE

Life was made a burden to him. He saw no way of
escape from the net in which he had been caught. Louisa
was no longer his sister and friend, though he did not like
her any the better for it; his constant dwelling on the
thought of marrying her had had the result of nuking him
realise that she was a woman, an unsympathetic woman, it
was true, but still a woman. His marriage would mean a
change in his position, and, perhaps, delivery from bondage.
There were no other girls in the neighbourhood, and, after
all, she was probably as good as any other yoimg woman.

And so he went one day to his mother and told her that
he had made up his mind. He would marry Louisa on con-
dition that he should have an establishment of his own in
one of the wings of the house, and his own table. He also
insisted that his mother should propose for nim, for he
could not bring himself to do it.

The compromise was accepted and Louisa was called in
to receive Frithiof's embrace and timid kiss. They both
wept for reasons which neither of them imderstood. They
felt ashamed of themselves for the rest of the day. After-
wards everything went on as before, but the motherliness of
aunts and sisters knew no boimds. They furnished the wing,
arranged the rooms, settled everything; Frithiof was never
consulted in the matter.

The preparations for the wedding were completed. Old
friends, buried in the provinces, were hunted up and invited
to be present at the ceremony.

The wedding took place.

On the morning after his wedding day Frithiof was up
early. He left his bed-room as quickly as possible, pre-
tending that his presence was necessary in the fields.
Louisa, who was still sleepy, made no objection. But as
he was going out she called after him:

"You won't forget breakfast at eleven I"

It sounded like a com^iand.

He went to his den, put on a shooting coat and waterproof
boots and took his gun, which he kept concealed in his
wardrobe. Then he went out into the wood.

It was a beautiful October morning. Everything was cov-
ered with hoar frost. He walked quickly as if he were

COMPULSORY MARRIAGE i8i

afraid of being called back, or as if he were trying to escape
from something. The fresh air had the effect of a bath.
He felt a free man, at last, and he used his freedom to go
out for a morning stroll with his gun. But this exhilarating
feeling of bodily freedom soon passed. Up to now he had at
least had a bedroom of his own. He had been master of
his thoughts during the day and his dreams at night. That
was over. The thought of that common bedroom tormented
him; there was something unclean about it. Shame was
cast aside like a mask, all delicacy of feeling was dispensed
with, every illusion of the "high origin" of man destroyed;
to come into such close contact with nothing but the beast
in man had been too much for him, for he had been brought
up by idealists. He was staggered by the enormity of the
hypocrisy displayed in the intercourse between men and
women; it was a revelation to him to find that the inmost
substance of that indescribable womanliness was nothing
but the fear of consequences. But supposing he had mar-
ried the doctor's daughter, or the gardener's little girl?
Then to be alone with her would be bliss, while to be alone
with his wife was depressing and unlovely; then the coarse
desire to satisfy a curiosity and a want would be trans-
formed into an ecstasy more spiritual than carnal.

He wandered through the wood without a purpose, with-
out an idea of what he wanted to shoot; he only felt a
vague desire to hear a shot and to kill something; but
nothing came before his gun. The birds had already mi-
grated. Only a squirrel was climbing about the branches
of a pine-tree, staring at him with brilliant eyes. He
raised the gun and pulled the trigger; but the nimble little
.beast was already on the other side of the trunk when the
shot hit the tree. But the sound impressed his nerves
pleasantly.

He left the footpath and went through the imdergrowth.
He stamped on every fungus that grew on his way. He was
in a destructive mood. He looked for a snake so as to
trample on it or kill it with a shot.

Suddenly he remembered that he ought to go home and
that it was the morning after his wedding day. The mere
thought of the curious glances to which he woidd be exposed

i82 COMPULSORY MARRIAGE

had the effect of making him feel like a criminal, about to be
unmasked and shown up for having committed a crime
against good manners and, what was worse, against nature.
Oh I that he could have left this world behind him I But
how was he to do that?

His thoughts grew tired at last of revolving round and
round the same problem and he felt a craving for food.
* He decided to return home and have some breakfast.

On entering the gate which led to the court 3^rd, he saw
I the whole hou^-party standing before the entrance halL
As soon as they caught sight of him they began to cb^r.
He crossed the yard with imcertain footsteps and listened
with ill-concealed irritation to the sly questions after Us
health. Then he turned away and went into the house,
never noticing his wife, who was standing amongst the
group waiting for him to go up to her and kiss
her.

At the breakfast table he suffered tortures; tortures
which he knew would be burnt into his memory for all
times. The insinuations of his guests offended him and his
wife's caresses stung him. His day of rejoicing was the
most miserable day of his life.

In the course of a few months the young wife, with the
assistance of aunts and sisters, had establisted her over-rule
in the house. Frithiof remained, what he had always been,
the youngest and dullest member of the household. Ss
advice was sometimes asked for, but never acted iqxm; he
was looked after as if he were still a child. His wife soon
found it imbearable to dine with him alone, for he kept an
obstinate silence during the meal. Louisa could not stand
it; she must have a li^tning conductor; one of the aisten
removed into the wing.

Frithiof made more than one attempt to emancipate him-
self, but his attempts were always frustrated by ihe enemy;
they were too many for him, and they talked and preached
until he fled into the wood.

The evenings held terror for him. He hated the bed-
room, and went to it as to a place of execution. He became
morose and avoided everybody.

COMPXJLSORY MARRIAGE t<

They had been married for a year now, and still there was
no promise of a child; his mother took him aside one day
to have a talk to him.

"Wouldn't you like to have a son?" she asked.

"Of course, I would," he replied.

"You aren't treating your wife very kindly," said the
mother as gently as possible.

He lost his temper.

"What? What do you say? Are you finding fault with
me? Do you want me to toil all day long? H'ml You
don't know Louisa I But whose business is it but mine?
Bring your charge against me in such a way that I can
answer it!"

But the mother was not disposed to do that.

Lonely and miserable, he made friends with the inspector,
a young man, addicted to wine and cards. He sought his
company and spent the evenings in his room; he went to
bed late, as late as possible.

On coming home one night, he found his wife still awake
and waiting for him.

"Where have you been?" she asked sharply.

"That's my business," he replied.

"To be married and have no husband is anything but
pleasant," she rejoined. "If we had a child, at leastl "

"It isn't my fault that we haven't 1"

"It isn't minel"

A quarrel arose as to whose fault it was, and the quarrel
lasted for two years.

As both of them were too obstinate to take medical ad-
vice, the usual thing happened. The husband cut a ridicu-
lous figure, and the wife a tragic one. He was told that a
childless woman was sacred because, for some reason or
other, "God's" curse rested on her. That "God" could also
stoop to curse a man was beyond the women's comprehen-
sion. ^

But Frithiof had no doubt that a curse rested on him
for his life was dreary and unhealthy. Nature has created
two sexes, which are now friends, now enemies. He had
met the enemy, an overwhelming enemy.

"What is a capon?" he was asked by one of his sisters

i84 COMPULSORY MARRIAGE

one day. She was busy with her needlework and asked the
question k propos of nothing.

He looked at her suspiciously. No, she did not know
the meaning of the word; she had probably listened to a
conversation and her curiosity was aroused.

But the iron had entered his soul. He was being laughed
at. He grew suspicious. Everything he heard and saw he
connected with that charge. Beside himself with rage, he
seduced one of the maids.

His act had the desired result. In due time he was a
father.

Now Louisa was looked upon as a martyr and he as a
blackguard. The abuse left him indifferent, for he had
vindicated his honour — ^if it was an honour and not merely
a lucky chance to be bom without defects.

But the incident roused Louisa's jealousy and — it was a
strange thing — awakened in her a sort of love for her hus-
band. It was a love which irritated him, for it showed
itself in unremitting watchfulness and nervous obtnisive-
ness; sometimes even in maternal tenderness and solicitude
which knew no bounds. She wanted to look after his gun,
see whether it was charged; she begged him on her knees to
wear his overcoat when he went out. . . . She kept his
home with scrupulous care, tidied and dusted all day loi%;
every Saturday the rooms were turned inside out, tiie car-
pets beaten and his clothes aired. He had no peace and
never knew when he would be turned out of his room so
that it could be scrubbed.

There was not sufficient to do to occupy him during the
day, for the women looked after everytfiing. He studied
agriculture and attempted to make improvements, but all
his efforts were frustrated. He was not master in his own
house.

Finally he lost heart. He had grown taciturn because he
was always contradicted. The want of congenial company
and fellows-in-misfortune gradually dulled his brain; hk
nerves went to pieces; he neglected his appearance and took
to drink.

He was hardly ever at home now. Frequently he could
be found, intoxicated, at the public house or in the cot-

COMPULSORY MARRIAGE 185

5 of the farm labourers. He drank with everybody

la all day long. He stimulated his brain with alcohol for

sake of the relief he found in talking. It was difficult

x} decide whether he drank in order to be able to talk to

somebody who did not contradict him, or whether he drank

nerely in order to get drunk.

He sold privileges and farm produce to the cottagers to
provide himself with money, for the women held the cash.

Qally he burgled his own safe and stole the contents.

There was an orthodox, church-going inspector on the
)remises now; the previous one had been dismissed on ac-
:ount of his intemperate habits. When at last, through
he clergyman's influence, the proprietor of the inn lost
lis license Frithiof took to drinking with his own farm
abourers. Scandal followed on scandal.

He developed into a heavy drinker who had epileptic
its whenever he was deprived of alcohol.

He was ultimately committed to an institution where he
'onained as an incurable patient.

At lucid intervals, when he was capable of surveying his
ife, his heart was filled with compassion for all women who
ire compelled to marry without love; his compassion was
dl the deeper because he had suffered in his own flesh the
iirse which lies on every violation of nature; and yet he
vas only a man.

He saw the cause of his unhappiness in the family — the
amily as a social institution, which does not permit the
Md to become an independent individual at the proper
Ime.

He brought no charge against his wife, for was she not
equally unhappy, a victim of the same unfortunate condi-
ions which are honoured by the sacred name of Law?

CORINNA

HER father was a general, her mother died when she
was still a baby. After her mother's death few ladies
visited the house; the callers were mostly men. And her
father took her education into his own hands.

She went out riding with him, was present at the ma-
noeuvres, took an interest in gymnastics and attended the
musters of the reserves.

Since her father occupied the highest rank in their circle
of friends, everybody treated him with an amount of respect
which is rarely shown to equals, and as she was the gen-
eral's daughter, she was treated in the same way. She held
the rank of a general and she knew it.

There was always an orderly sitting in the hall who rose
with much clanking and clashing of steel and stood at at-
tention whenever she went in or out. At the balls none but
the majors dared to ask her for a dance; she looked upon
a captain as a representative of an inferior race, and a
lieutenant as a naughty boy.

She fell into the habit of appreciating people entirely
according to their rank. She called all civilians "fishes,"
poorly-clad people "rascals," and the very poor "the mob."

The ladies, however, were altogether outside this scale.
Her father, who occupied a position above all men, and who
was saluted respectfully wherever he went, always stood up
before a lady, regardless of her age, kissed the hands of
those he knew, and was at the beck and call of every pretty
woman. The result of this was that very early in life she
became very firmly convinced of the superiority of her own ^y
sex, and accustomed herself to look upon a man as a lower
being.

T\Qienever she went out on horseback, a groom invariably
rode behind her. When she stopped to admire the land-
scape, he stopped too. He was her shadow. But she bad
no idea what he looked like, or whether be was young or

187

i88 CORINNA

old. If she had been asked about his sex, she would not
have known how to reply; it had never occurred to her that
the shadow could have a sex; when, in mounting, she placed
her little riding-boot in his hand, she remained quite in-
different, and even occasionally raised her habit a little as
if nobody were present.

These inbred conceptions of the surpassing importance of
rank influenced her whole life. She found it impossible to
make friends with the daughters of a major or a captain,
because their fathers were her father's social inferiors.
Once a lieutenant asked her for a dance. To punish him
for his impudence, she refused to talk to him in the inter-
vals. But when she heard later on that her partner had
been one of the royal princes, she was inconsolable. She
who knew every order and title, and the rank of evoy
officer, had failed to recognise a prince I It was too ter-
rible!

She was beautiful, but pride gave her features a certain
rigidity which scared her admirers away. The thought of
marriage had never occurred to her. The young men were
not fully qualified, and those to whose social position there
was no objection, were too old. If she, the daughter of a
general, had married a captain, then a major's wife would
have taken precedence of her. Such a degradation would
have killed her. Moreover, she had no wi^ to be a man's
chattel, or an ornament for his drawing-room. She was ac-
customed to command, accustomed to be obeyed; she could
obey no man. The freedom and independence of a man's
life appealed to her; it had fostered in her a loathing for
all womanly occupations.

Her sexual instinct awoke late. As she belonged to an
old family which on her father's side, had squandered its
strength in a soulless militarism, drink and dissipation, and
on her mother's had suppressed fertility to prevent the
splitting up of property. Nature seemed to have hesitated
about her sex at the eleventh hour; or perhaps had lacked
strength to determine on the continuation of the race. Her
figure possessed none of those essentially feminine charac-
teristics, which Nature requires for her purposes, and she
scorned to hide her defects by artificial means«

CORINNA 189

The few women friends she had, found her cold and in-
different towards everything connected with the sex prob-
lem. She treated it with contempt, considered the relation-
ship between the sexes disgusting, and could not understand
how a woman could give herself to a man. In her opinion '
Nature was unclean; to wear clean underlinen, starched
petticoats and stockings without holes was to be virtuous;
poor was merely another term for dirt and vice.

Every summer she spent with her father on their estate
in the country.

She was no great lover of the country. Nature made her
feel small; she found the woods uncanny, the lake made her
shudder, there was danger hidden in the tall meadow-grass.
She regarded the peasants as cunning and rather filthy
beasts. They had so many children, and she had no doubt
that both boys and girls were full of vice. Nevertheless
they were always invited to the manor house on Midsummer
day and on the generaPs birthday, to play the part of the
chorus of grand opera, that is to say, to cheer and dance,
and look like the figures in a painting.

It was springtime. Jlelena, on her thoroughbred mare,
had penetrated into the depths of the country. She felt
tired and dismounted; she fastened her mare to a birchtree
which grew near an enclosure. Then she strolled along by
the side of a ditch and began to gather wild orchids. The
air was soft and balmy, steam was rising from the ground.
She could hear the frogs jumping into the ditch which was
half-full of water.

All at once the mare neighed and, stretching her slender
neck over the fence, drew in the air with wide-open nostrils.

"Alice!" she called out, "be quiet, old girl!"

And she continued to gather the modest flowers which so
cleverly hide their secrets behind the prettiest and neatest
curtains that for all the world look like printed calico.

But the mare neighed again. From behind the hazel
bushes on the other side of the enclosure came an answer,
a second neighing, deeper and fuller. The swampy ground
of the enclosure shook, powerful hoofs scattered the stones
to right and left and a black stallion appeared at full gallop

190 CXDRINNA

I

The tense neck carried a magnificent head, the musdes lay
like ropes under the glossy skin. As he caught sigjit df &
mare, his eyes began to flsush. He stopped and stretched out
his neck as if he were going to yawn, raised his upper lip
and showed his teeth. Then he galloped across the grass
and approached the railings.

Helena picked up her skirt and ran to her mare; she
raised her hand to seize the bridle, but the mare broke away
and took the fence. Then the wooing began.

She stood at the fence and called, but the exdted mare
paid no heed. Inside the enclosure the horses chased one
another; the situation was a critical one. The breath of
the stallion came like smoke from his nostrils and ^pdiite
foam flecked his shoulders.

. Helena longed to escape, for the scene filled her with
horror. She had never witnessed the raging of a natural
instinct in a living body. This uncontrolled outbreak terri-
fied her.

She wanted to run after her mare and drag her away by
force, but she was afraid of the savage stallion. She wanted
to call for help, but she was loath to attract other eye-
witnesses. She turned her back to the scene and decided to
wait.

The sound of horses' hoofs came from the direction of the
highroad; a carriage appeared in sight.

There was no escape; although she was ashamed to stay
where she was, it was too late now to run away, for the
horses were slowing down and the carriage sto^^ed a few
yards in front of her.

"How beautifull" exclaimed one of the occupants of the
carriage, a lady, and raised her golden lorgnette so as to get
a better view of the spectacle.

"But why are we stopping?" retorted the other, irritably.
"Drive on!"

"Don't you think it beautiful?" asked the elder lady.

The coachman's smile was lost in his great beard, as he
urged the horses on.

"You are such a prude, my dear Milly," said the first
voice. "To me this kind of thing is like a thimderstorm,

a heavy sea ... "

CORINNA ipi

Helena could hear no more. She felt crushed with vexa-
tion, shame and horror.

A farm labourer came shuffling along the highroad. He-
lena ran to meet him, so as to prevent him from witnessing
the scene, and at the same time ask his help. But he was
already too near.

"I believe it's the miller's black stallion," he said gravely.
"In that case it will be better to wait imtil it's all over, for
he won't brook interference. If the lady will leave it to
me, I will bring her mare home later on."

Glad to have done with the matter, Helena hurried away.

When she arrived home, she was ill.

She refused to ride her mare again, for in her eyes the
beast had become imdean.

This pretty adventure had a gi-eater influence on He-
lena's psychic development than might have been expected.
The brutal outbreak of a natural instinct, the imdisguised
exhibition of which in the community of men is punished
with a term of imprisonment, haunted her as if she had
been present at an execution. It distressed her during the
day and disturbed her dreams at night. It increased her
fear of nature and made her give up her former amazon's
life. She remained at home and gave herself up to
study.

The house boasted a library. But as misfortune would
have it, no additions had been made since her grandfather's
death. All books were therefore a generation too old, and
Helena found antiquated ideals. The first book which fell
into her hands was Madame de Stael's Corinna. The way
in which the volume lay on the shelf indicated that it had
served a special purpose. Bound in green and gold, a little
shabby at the edges, full of marginal notes and underlined
passages, the work of her late mother, it became a bridge,
as it were, between mother and daughter, which enabled Uie
now grown-up daughter to make Uie acquaintance of the
dead mother. These pencil notes were the story of a soul.
Di^leasure with the prose of life and the brutality of na-
ture, had inflamed the writer's imagination and inspired it
to construct a dreamworld in which the souls dwelled, dis-

\^

192 CORINNA

incarnate. It was essentially an aristocratic world, this
dreamworld, for it required financial independence from its
denizens, so that the soul might be fed widi thoughts. This
brain-fever, called romance, was therefore the goiq)el of
the wealthy, and became absurd and pitiful as soon a& it
penetrated to the lower classes.

Corinna became Helena's ideal: the divinely inspired
poetess who like the nun of the middle-ages, had vowed a
vow of chastity, so that she might lead a life of purity, who
was, of course, admired by a brilliant throng, rose to im-
measurable heights above the heads of the petty every-day
mortals. It was the old ideal all over again, transfiosed:
salutes, standing at attention, rolling of drums, the first
place everywhere. Helena was quite ignorant of the fact
that Madame de Stael outlived the Corinna ideal, and did
not become a real influence until she came out of her
dreamworld into the world of facts.

She ceased to take an interest in everyday affairs, she
commimed with herself and brooded over her ego. The
inheritance which her mother had left her in posthumous
notes began to germinate. She identified herself with both
Corinna and her mother, and spent much time in meditating
on her mission in life. That nature had intended her to
become a mother and do her share in the propagation of
the human race, she refused to admit. Her mission was to
explain to humanity what Madame de Stael's Corinna had
thought fifty years ago; but she imagined the thoughts
were her own, striving to find expression.

She began to write. One day she attempted verse. She
succeeded. The lines were of equal length and the last
words rh3aned. A great light dawned on her: she was a
poetess. One thing more remained: she wanted ideas; well
she could take them from Corinna.

In this way quite a number of poems originated.

But they had also to be bestowed on the world, and this
could not be done unless they were printed. One day she
sent a poem entitled Sappho and signed Corinna to the
Illustrated Newspaper. With a beating heart she went out
to post the letter herself, and as it dropped into the pillar-
box, she prayed softly to "God."

CORINNA 193

A trying . fortnight ensued. She ate nothing, hardly
closed her eyes, and spent her dajrs in solitude.

When Saturday came and the paper was delivered, she
trembled as if she were fever-stricken, and when she foimd
that her verses were neither printed nor mentioned in "Let-
ters to Correspondents," she almost broke down.

On the following Saturday, when she could coimt on an
answer with some certainty, she slipped the paper into her
pocket without unfolding it, and went into the woods.
When she had arrived at a secluded spot and made sure that
no one was watching her, she imfolded the paper and hastily
glanced at the contents. One poem only was printed, en-
titled Bellman'S'day. She turned to "Letters to Corre-
spondents." Her first glance at the small print made her
start violently. Her fingers clutched the paper, rolled it
into a ball and^ flung it into the underwood. Then she
stared, fascinated, at the ball of white, glimmering through
the green undergrowth. For the first time in her life she
had received an insult. She was completely unnerved.
This unknown journalist had dared what nobody had dared
before: he had been rude to her. She had come out from
behind her trenches into the arena where high birth counts
for nothing, but where victory belongs to that wonderful
natural endowment which we call talent, and before which
all powers bow when it can no longer be denied. But the
unknown had also offended the woman in her, for he had
said:

"The Corinna of 1807 would have cooked dinners and
rocked cradles if she had lived after 1870. But you are
no Corinna."

For the first time she had heard tHe voice of the enemy,
the arch-enemy, man. Cook dinners and rock cradles 1 ^
They should seel

She went home. She felt so crushed that her musdes
hardly obeyed her relaxed nerves.

When she had gone a little way, she suddenly turned
round and retraced her footsteps. Supposing anybody
found that paper! It would give her away.

She returned to the spot, and breaking off a hazel switch,
dragged the paper out from where it lay and carefully

194 CORINNA

smoothed it. Then she raised a piece of turf, hid the paper
underneath and rolled a stone on the top. It was a hope
that lay buried there, and also a proof — of what? That
she had committed a crime? • She felt that she had. She
had done a wrong, she had shown herself naked before
the other sex.

From this day on a struggle went on in her heart. Am-
bition and fear of publicity strove within her, and she was
unable to come to a decision.

In the following autimm her father died. As he had
been addicted to gambling, and more often lost than won,
he left debts behind him. But in smart society these things
are of no account. There was no necessity for Helena
to earn her living in a shop, for a hitherto unknown aunt
came forward and offered her a home.

But her father's death wrought a complete change in
her position. No more salutes; the officers of the regiment
nodded to her in a friendly fashion, the lieutenants asked
her to dance. She saw plainly that the respect shown to
her had not been shown to her personally, but merely to
her rank. She felt degraded and a lively sympathy for
all subalterns was bom in her; she even felt a sort of hatred
for all those who enjoyed her former privileges. Side by
side with this feeling grew up a yearning for personal appre-
ciation, a desire to win a position surpassing all o£hers,
although it might not figure in the Army list.

She longed to distinguish herself, to win fame, and,
(why not?) to rule. She possessed one talent which she
had cultivated to some extent, although she had never risen
above the average; she played the piano. She began to
study harmony and talked of the sonata in G minor and
the symphony in F major as if she had written them her-
self. And forthwith she began to patronise musicians.

Six months after her father's death, the post of a lady-
in-waiting was offered to her. She accepted it. The rolling
of drums and military salutes reconmienced, and Helena
gradually lost her sympathy with subalterns. But the mind
is as inconstant as fortune, and fresh experi^ices again
brought about a change of her views.

She discovered one day, and the day was not long in

CORINNA 195

coming, that she was nothing but a servant. She was sit-
ting in the Park with the Duchess. The Duchess was
crocheting.

"I consider those blue stockings perfectly idiotic," said
the Duchess.

Helena turned pale; she stared at her mistress.

"I don't," she replied.

"I didn't ask your opinion," replied the Duchess, letting
her ball of wool roll into the dust.

Helena's knees trembled; her future, her position passed
away before her eyes like a flash of lightning. She went
to pick up the wool. It seemed to her that her back was
breaking as she stooped, and her cheeks flamed when the
Duchess took the ball without a word of thanks.

"You are not angry?" asked the Duchess, staring imperti-
nently at her victim.

"Oh, no. Your Royal Highness," was Helena's untruth-
ful reply.

"They say that you are a blue-stocking yourself," con-
tinued the Duchess. "Is it true?"

Helena had a feeling as if she were standing nude be-
fore her tormentor and made no reply.

For the second time the ball rolled into the dust. Helena
pretended not to notice it, and bit her lips to hold back
the angry tears which were welling up in her eyes.

"Pick up my wool, please," said the Duchess.

Helena drew herself up, looked the autocrat full in the
face and said:

"I won't."

And with these words she turned and fled. The sand
gritted under her feet, and little clouds of dust followed in
the wake of her train. She almost ran down the stone
steps and disappeared.

Her career at court was ended; but a sting remained.
Helena was made to feel what it means to be in dis-
grace, and above all things what it means to throw up
^one's post. Society does not approve of changes and no-
body would believe that she had voluntarily renounced t
sunshine of the court. No doubt she had been sent away.
Yes, it must be so, she had been sent away. Never before

196 CORINNA

had she felt so humiliated, so insulted. It seemed to her
that she had lost caste; her relations treated her wiA
coldness, as if they were afraid that her disgrace mig^t be
infectious; her former friends gave her the cold slmilder
when they met her, and limited their conversation to a
minimum.

On the other hand, as she stooped from her former height,
the middle-<:lasses received her with open arms. It was
true, at first their friendliness offended her more than the
coldness of her own class, but in the end she preferred
being first down below to being last up above. She joined
a group of Government officials and professors who haOed
her with acclamations. Animated by the superstitious awe
with which the middle classes regard everybody connected
with the court, they at once began to pay her homage. She
became their chosen leader and hastened to form a regi-
ment. A number of young professors enlisted at once and
she arranged lectures for women. Old academic rubbish
was brought out from the lumber-room, dusted and sold
for new wares. In a dining-room, denuded of its furni-
ture, lectures on Plato and Aristotle were giv^ to an
audience which unfortunately held no key to this shrine
of wisdom.

Helena, in conquering these pseudo-m3rsteries felt the in-
tellectual superior of ^e ignorant aristocracy. This feel-
ing gave her an assurance which impressed people. The
men worshipped her beauty and aloofness; but she never
felt in the least moved in their company. She accepted
their homage as a tribute due to women and found it
impossible to respect these lackeys who jumped up and
stood at attention whenever she passed.

But in the long run her position as an unmarried woman
failed to satisfy her, and she noted with envious e3res the
freedom enjoyed by her married sisters. They were at
liberty to go wherever they liked, talk to whom they liked,
and always had a footman in their husband to meet them
and accompany them on their way home. In addition,
married women had a better social position, and a great
deal more influence. With what condescension for instance,
they treated the spinsters! But whenever she thougiht of

CORINNA 197

getting married, the incident with her mare flashed into
her mind and terror made her ill.

In the second year the wife of a professor from Upsala,
who combined with her official position great personal
charm, appeared on the scene. Helena *s star paled; all her
worshippers left her to worship the new sun. As she no
longer possessed her former social position, and the savour
of Sie court had vanished like the scent on a handkerchief,
she was beaten in the fight. One single vassal remained
faithful to her, a lecturer on ethics, who had hitherto not
dared to push himself forward. His attentions were well
received, for the severity of his ethics filled her with un-
limited confidence. He wooed her so assiduously that peo-
ple began to gossip; Helena, however, took no notice, she
was above that.

One evening, after a lecture on "The Ethical Moment
in Conjugal Love" or "Marriage as a Manifestation of Ab-
solute Identity," for which the lecturer received nothing
but his expenses and a grateful pressure of hands, they
were sitting in the denuded dining-room on their uncom-
fortable cane chairs, discussing the subject.

"You mean to say then," said Helena, "that marriage is
a relationship of co-existence between two identical Egos?"

•'I mean what I said already in my lecture, that only if
there exists such a relationship between two congruous iden-
tities, being can conflow into becoming of higher poten-
tiality/'

"\V'hat do you mean by becoming?" asked Helena,
blushing.

"The post-existence of two egos in a new ego."

"Whair' You mean that the continuity of the ego,
which through the cohabitation of two analogous beings will
necessarily incorporate itself into a becoming. . . ."

"No, my dear lady, I only meant to say that marriage,
in profane parlance, can only produce a new spiritual ego,
which cannot be differentiated as to sex, when there is com-
patibility of souls. I mean to say that the new being bom
under those conditions will be a conglomerate of male and
female; a new creature to whom both will have yielded their
personality, a unity in multiplicity, to use a well-known

198 CORINNA

term, an 'hommefemme! The man will cease to be man,
the woman will cease to be woman."

^That is the union of souls!" exclaimed Hdena, glad to
have successfulUy navigated the dangerous cliffs.

'^It is the harmony of souls of which Plato speaks. It
is true marriage as I have sometimes visualised it in my
dreams, but which, unfortunately, I shall hardly be able to
realise in actuality."

Helena stared at the ceiling and whispered:

"Why shouldn^t you, one of the elect, realise this dream?"

"Because she to whom my soul is drawn with irresistible
longing does not believe in — ^h*m — ^love."

"You cannot be sure of that."

"Even if she did, she would always be tormented by the
suspicion that the feeling was not sincere. Moreover, thare
is no woman in the world who would fall in love with me,
no, not one."

"Yes, there is," said Helena, gazing into his glass eye.
(He had a glass eye, but it was so well made, it was
impossible to detect it.)

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure," replied Helena. "For you are different
to other men. You realise what spiritual love means, the
love of the souls!"

"Even if the woman did exist, I could never many
her."

"Why not?"

"Share a room with her!"

"That needn't be the case. Madame de StaS merely
lived in the same house as her husband."

"Did she?"

"What interesting topic are you two discussing?^' asked
the professor's wife, coming out of the drawing-room.

"We were talking of Laocoon," answered Helena, rising,
from her chair. She was offended by the note of con-
descension in the lady's voice. And she made up her
mind.

A week later her engagement to the lecturer was pub-
licly announced. They decided to be married in the autumn
and take up their abode at Upsala.

CORINNA 199

A brilliant banquet, in celebration of the close of his
bachelor life, was given to the lecturer on ethics. A great
deal of wine had been consumed and the only artist the
town boasted, the professor of drawing at the Cathedral
School, had depicted in bold outlines the victim's career
up to date. It was the great feature of the whole en-
tertainment. Ethics was a subject of teaching and a milch
cow, like many others, and need not necessarily influence
either the life of the community, or the life of the indi-
vidual. The lecturer had not been a saint, but had had
his adventures like everybody else; these were public prop-
erty, for he had had no reason to keep them dark. With a
careless smile he watched his career, pictured in chalk and
colours, accompanied by witty verses, unfolding itself be-
fore his eyes, but when at last his approaching bliss was
portrayed in simple but powerful sketches, he became deeply
embarrassed, and the thought "If Helena were to see that!"
flashed like lightning through his brain.

After the banquet, at which according to an old, time-
honoured custom, he had dnmk eight glasses of brandy,
he was so intoxicated that he could no longer suppress
his fears and apprehensions. Among his hosts was a mar-
ried man and to him the victim turned for counsel and
advice. Since neither of them was sober, they chose, as
the most secluded spot in the whole room, two chairs right
in the centre, immediately under the chandelier. Conse-
quently they were soon surrounded by an eagerly listening
crowd.

"Look here! You are a married man," said the lecturer
at the top of his voice, so as not to be heard by the
assembly, as he fondly imagined. "You must give me a
word of advice, just one, only one little word of advice,
for I am extremely sensitive to-night, especially in regard
to this particular point."

"I will, brother," shouted his friend, "just one word,
as you say," and he put his arm round his shoulders that
he might whisper to him; then he continued, screaming
loudly: "Every act consists of three parts, my brother:
Progressus, culm en, regressus.l will speak to you of the
first, the second is never mentioned. Well, the initiative,

200 CX)RINNA

so to speak, that is the man's privilege — ^your portl Yoa
must take the initiative, you must attack, do you under-
stand?"

'^But supposing the other party does not strove of the
initiative?"

The friend stared at the novice, taken aback; Chen he
rose and contemptuously turned his back on him.

"Fool!" he muttered.

"Thank you! " was all the grateful pupil could reply.

Now he understood.

On the following day he was on fire with all the strong
drink he had consumed; he went and took a hot bath, for
on the third day was to be his wedding.

The wedding guests had departed; the servant had
cleared the table; they were alone.

Helena was comparatively calm, but he felt exceedingly
nervous. The period of their engagement had heea en-
hanced by conversations on serious subjects. They had
never behaved liked ordinary, every-day fiancfe, had never
embraced or kissed. Whenever he had attempted the
smallest familiarity, her cold looks had chilled his ardour.
But he loved her as a man loves a woman, with body and
soul."

They fidgeted about the drawing-room and tried to
make conversation. But an obstinate silence again and
again reasserted itself. The candles in the chandler had
burnt low and the wax fell in greasy drops on the carpet*
The atmosphere was heavy with the smell of food and the
fumes of the wines which mingled with the voluptuous per-
fimie of carnations and heliotrope, exhaled by Helena's
bridal bouquet that lay on a side-table.

At last he went up to her, held out his arms, and said
in a voice which he hoped sounded natural:

"And now you are my wife!"

"What do you mean?" was Helena's brusque reply.

Completely taken aback, he allowed his arms to drop
to his sides. But he pulled himself together again, almost
immediately, and said with a self-conscious smile:

"I mean to say that we are husband and wife."

CORINNA 201

Helena looked at him as if she thought that he had
taken leave of his senses.

"Explain yoiu" words!" she said.

That was just what he couldn't do. Philosophy and
ethics failed him; he was faced by a cold and exceedingly
unpleasant reality.

"It's modesty," he thought. "She's quite right, but I
must attack and do my duty."

"Have you misimderstood me?" asked Helena and her
voice trembled.

"No, of course not, but, my dear child, h'm — ^we —
h'm . . ."

"What language is that? Dear child? What do you
take me for? What do you mean? Albert, Albert!" —
she rushed on without waiting for a reply, which she didn't
want — "Be great, be noble, and learn to see in women
something more than sex. Do that, and you will be happy
and great!"

Albert was beaten. Crushed with shame and furious
with his false friend who had counselled him wrongly,
he threw himself on his knees before her and stam-
mered:

"Forgive me, Helena, you are nobler, piu-er, better than
I; you are made of finer fibre and you will lift me up
when I threaten to perish in coarse matter."

"Arise and be strong, Albert," said Helena, with the
manner of a prophetess. "Go in peace and show to the
world that love and base animal passion are two very
different things. Good-night!"

Albert rose from his knees and stared irresolutely after
his wife who went into her room and shut the door behind
her.

Full of the noblest and pure^ sentiments he also vf&at
into his room. He took off his coat and lighted a cigar*
His room was furnished like a badielor's room: a b^d-
sofa, a writing table, some book shelves, a washstand.

When he had undressed, he dipped a towel into hie
ewer and nibbed himself all over. Then he lay down
on his sofa and opened the evening p2q>er. He wanted to
read while he smoked his dgar. He read an artide on

^2 CX)RINNA

Frotection. His thoughts began to flow in a more normal
channel, and he considered his position.

Was he married or was he still a bachelor? He was
a bachelor as before, but there was a difference — ^he now
had a female boarder who paid nothing for her board.
The thought was anything but pleasant, but it was the
truth. The cook kept house, the housemaid attended to
the rooms. Where did Helena come in? She was to de-
velop her individuality! Oh, rubbish! he thought, I am a
fool! Supposing his friend had been right? Supposing
women alwajrs behaved in this silly way under these cir-
cumstances? She could not very well come to him — ha
must go to her. If he didn't go, she would probably laugh
at him to-morrow, or, worse still, be offended. Women
were indeed fncomprehensible. He must make the
attempt.

He jumped up, put on his dressing-gown and went into
the drawing-room. With trembling knees he listened out-
side Helena's door.

Not a sound. He took heart of grace, and approached
a step or two. Blue flashes of lightning darted before his
eyes as he knocked.

No answer. He trembled violently and beads of perspi-
ration stood on his forehead.

He knocked again. And in a falsetto voice, proceeding
from a parched throat, he said:

"It's only I."

No answer. Overwhelmed with shame, he returned to
his room, puzzled and chilled.

She was in earnest, then.

He crept between the sheets and again took up the
paper.

He hadn't been reading long when he heard footstq)s
in the street which gradually approached and then stopped.
Soft music fell on his ear, deep, strong voices set in:

"Integer vitae sclerisque purus ..."

He was touched. How beautiful it was!

Purus! He felt lifted above matter. It was in ac-
cordance with the spirit of the age thai, this higher con-
ception of marriage. The current of ethics which pene-

CORINNA 203

trated the epoch was flowing through the youth of the
country. . . •

"Nee venenatis . . ."

Supposing Helena had opened her door!

He gently beat time and felt himself as great and noble
as Helena desired him to be.

"Fusee pharetraT

Should he open the window and thank the undergradu-
ates in the name of his wife?

He got out of bed.

A fourfold peal of laughter crashed against the window-
panes at the very moment he lifted his hand to draw up
the blind.

There could be no doubt, they were making fun of
him!

Beside himself with anger he staggered back from the
window and knocked against the writing-table. He was
a laughing-stock. A faint hatred against the woman whom
he had to thank for this humiliating scene, began to stir
within him, but his love acquitted her. He was incensed
against the jesters down below, and swore to bring them
before the authorities.

But again and again he reverted to his unpleasant po-
sition, furious that he had allowed himself to be led by
the nose. He paced his room imtil dawn broke in the
East. Then he threw himself on his bed and fell asleep,
in bitter grief over the dismal ending of his wedding-day,
which ought to have been the happiest day of his life.

On the following morning he met Helena at the break-
fast table. She was cold and self-possessed as usual. Al-
bert, of course, did not mention the serenade. Helena
made great plans for the future and talked volumes about
the abolition of prostitution. Albert met her half-way and
promised to do all in his power to assist her. Himianity
must become chaste, for only the beasts were unchaste.

Breakfast over, he went to his lecture. The serenade
had roused his suspicions, and as he watched his audi^ice,
he fancied that they were making signs to each other;
his colleagues, too, seemed to congratulate him in a way
which offended him.

1/

204 CORINNA

A big, stout colleague, who radiated vigour and joie de*
vivre, stopped him in the corridor which led to the Ubrary,
seized him by the collar and said with a colossal grin on
his broad face,

"Well?"

"You ought to be ashamed of yoiurself," was the in-
dignant reply with which he tore himself away and rushed
down stairs.

When he arrived home, his flat was crowded with his
wife's friends. Women's skirts brushed against his legs,
and when he sat down in an armchair, he seemed to
sink out of sight into piles and piles of wom^i's clothes.

"I've heard rumours of a serenade last night," said the
professor's wife.

Albert grew pale, but Helena took up the gauntlet.

"It was well meant, but they really mig^t have been
sober. This excessive drinking among students is ter-
rible."

"What did they sing?" asked the professor's wife.

"OhI the usual songs: 'My life a sea,' and so on/' replied
Helena.

Albert stared at her in amazement, but he couldn't help
admiring her.

The day went with gossip and discussions. Albert fdt
tired. He enjoyed spending a few hours, after the daily
tofl was over, in pleasant conversation with women, but
this was really too much. And moreover, he had to agree
to everything they said, for whenever he attempted to ex-
press a contradictory opinion, they were down on him
in a minute.

Night fell; it was bedtime. Husband and wife wished
one another good night and retired to their separate rooms.

Again he was attacked by doubt and restlessness. He
fancied that he had seen a tender look on Helena's face,
and he wasn't quite sure whether she hadn't squeezed his
hand. He lit a cigar and unfolded his paper. As soon
as he began to read of every-day matters, he seemed to see
clearly.

"It's sheer madness," he said aloud, throwing the paper
aside.

CX)RINNA 205

He slipped on his dressing-gown and went into the
drawing-room.

Somebody was moving in Helena's room.

He knocked.

"Is that you, Louise?" asked a voice from inside.

"No, it's only I," he whispered, hardly able to speak.

"What's the matter? What do you want?"

"I want to speak to you, Helena," he answered, hardly
knowing what he was saying.

The key turned in the lock. Albert could hardly trust
his ears. The door flew open. Helena stood on the thresh-
old, still fully dressed.

"What is it you want?" she asked. Then she noticed
that he was in his dressing-gown and that his eyes shone
strangely.

She stretched out her hand, pushed him away and
slanmied the door.

He heard a thud on the floor and almost simultaneously
loud sobs.

Furious, but abashed, he returned to his room. She was
in earnest, then! But this was certainly anything but
normal.

He lay awake all night, brooding, and on the following
morning he breakfasted alone.

When he came home for lunch, Helena received him
with an expression of pained resignation.

"Why do you treat me like that?" she asked.

He apolo^sed, with as few words as possible. Then he
repented his curtness and climbed down.

Thus matters stood for six months. He was tossed be-
tween doubt, rage and love, but his chain held.

His face grew pale and his eyes lost their lustre. His
temper had become uncertain; a sullen fury smouldered
beneath his outward calm.

Helena foimd him changed, despotic, because he was
beginning to oppose her, and often left the meetings to
seek amusement elsewhere.

One day he was asked to become a candidate for a pro-
fessorial chair. He refused, believing that he had no
chance, but Helena gave him no peace until he complied

2o6 CORINNA

with the conditions. He was elected. He never knew the
reason why, but Helena did.

A short time after there was a by-election.

The new professor, who had never dreamed of taking
an active interest in public affairs, was nonplussed when
he found himself nominated. His surprise was even greater
when he was elected. He intended to decline, but Helena's
entreaties and her argimient that life in a big dty was
preferable to an existence in a small provincial town in-
duced him to accept the mandate.

They removed to Stockholm.

During these six months the newly-made professor and
member of Parliament had made himself acquainted with
the new ideas which came from England and purposed
to recreate society and the old standards of morality. At
the same time he felt that the moment was not far off
when he would have to break with his "boarder." He
recovered his strength and vigour in Stockholm, where
fearless thinkers encouraged him to profess op^y the
views which he had long held in secret.

Helena, on the other hand, scented a favourable oppor-
tunity in the counter-current and threw herself into the
arms of the C3iurch Party. This was too much for Albert
and he rebelled. His love had grown cold; he found com-
pensation elsewhere. He didn't consider himself unfaithful
to his wife for she had never claimed constancy in a rela-
tionship which didn't exist.

His friendly intercourse with the other sex aroused his
manliness and made him realise his degradation.

His growing estrangement did not escape Helena. Their
home-life became unpleasant and every moment threatened
to bring a catastrophe.

The opening of Parliament was inuninent. Helena be-
came restless and seemed to have changed her tactics. Her
voice was more gentle and she appeared anxious to please
him. She looked after the servants and saw that the meals
were served punctually.

He grew suspicious and wondered, watched her move-
ments and prepared for coming events.

One morning, at breakfast, Helena looked embarrassed

CORINNA 207

and self-conscious. She played with her dinner napkin
and cleared her throat several times. Then she took her
courage in both her hands and made a plunge.

"Albert," she began, "I can count on you, can't I?
You will serve the Cause to which I have devoted my
Ufe?"

"What cause is that?" he asked curtly, for now he had \
the upper hand.

"You will do something for the oppressed women, won't
you?"

"Where are the oppressed women?"

"What? Have you deserted our great cause? Are you
leaving us in the lurch?"

"What cause are you talking about?"

"The Women's Cause!"

"I know nothing about it."

"You know nothing about it? Oh, come! You must
admit that the position of the women of the lower classes
is deplorable."

"No, I can't see that their position is any worse than
the position of the men. Deliver the men from their ex-
ploiters and the women too will be free."

"But the unfortunates who have to sell themselves, and
the scoundrels who — "

"The scoundrels who pay! Has ever a man taken pay-
ment for a pleasure which both enjoy?"

"That is not the question! The question is whether
it is just that the law of the land should punish the one
and let the other go scotfree."

"There is no injustice in that. The one has degraded
herself until she has become a source of infection, and
therefore the State treats her as it treats a mad dog. ,
Whenever you find a man, degraded to that degree,^'
well, put him under police control, too. Oh, you pure
angels, who despise men and look upon them as undean
beastsi . . ."

"Well, what is it? What do you want me to do?"

He noticed that she had taken a manuscript from the
sideboard and held it in her hand. Without waiting for
a reply, he took it from her and began to examine it,

2o8 CORINNA

*'A bill to be introduced into Parliament! I'm to be the
man of straw who introduces it! Is that moral? StricUy
speaking, is it honest?"

Helena rose from her chair, threw herself on the sofa
and burst into tears.

He, too, rose and went to her. He took her hand in his
and felt her pulse, afraid lest her attack might be seri-
ous. She seized his hand convulsively, and pressed it
against her bosom.

"Don't leave me," she sobbed, "don't go. Stay, and
let me keep faith in you."

For the first time in his life he saw her giving way to
her emotions. This delicate body, which he luid loved
and admired so much, could be warmed into life I Red,
warm blood flowed in those blue veins. Blood which could
distil tears. He gently stroked her brow.

"Oh!" she sighed, "why aren't you always good to mc
like that? Why hasn't it always been so?"

"Well," he answered, "why hasn't it? Tell me, why
not?"

Helena's eyelids drooped. "Why not?" she breathed,
softly.

She did not withdraw her hand and he fdt a gentle
warmth radiating from her velvety skin; his love for her
burst into fresh flames, but this time he fdt that there
was hope.

At last she rose to her feet.

"Don't despise me," she said, "don't despise me, dear."

And she went into her room.

What was the matter with her? Albert wondered as he
went up to town. Was she passing throu^ a crisis of
some sort? Was she only just beginning to realise that
she was his wife?

He spent the whole day in town. In the evening he
went to the theatre. They played Le tnande a& Pan s'enmiH.
As he sat and watched platonic love, the union of souls,
unmasked and ridiculed, he felt as if a veil of dose meshed
lies were being drawn from his reason; he smiled as he
saw the head of the charming beast peeping from under-
neath the card-board wings of the stage-angel; he almost

CX)RINNA 209

shed tears of amusement at his long, long self-dec^tion;
he laughed at his folly. What fildi and corruption lay
behind this hypocritical morality, this insane desire for
emancipation from healthy, natural instincts. It was the
ascetic teachijig of idealism and Christianity which had im-
planted this germ into the nineteenth century.

He felt ashamed! How could he have allowed himself
to be duped all this time I

There was still light in Helena's room as he passed her
door on tip-toe so as not to wake her. He heard her
cough.

He went straight to bed, smoked his cigar and read his
paper. He was absorbed in an article on conscription,
when all of a sudden Helena's door was fltmg open, and
footsteps and screams from the drawing-room feU on his
ears. He jiunped up and rushed out of his room, believing
that the house was on fire.

Helena was standing in the drawing-room in her night-
gown.

She screamed when she saw her husband and ran to
her room; on the threshold she hesitated and turned her
head.

"Forgive me, Albert," she stammered, "it's you. I didn't
know that you were still up. I thought there were burglars
in the house. Please, forgive me."

And she closed her door.

What did it all mean? Was she in love with him?

He went into his room and stood before the looking-
glass. Could any woman fall in love with him? He
was plain. But one loves with one's soul and many a
plain man had married a beautiful woman. It was true,
though, that in such cases the man had nearly always pos-
sessed wealth and influence. — ^Was Helena realising that
she had placed herself in a false position? Or h^ she
become aware of his intention to leave her and was amdous^
to win him back?

When they met at the breakfast table on the following
morning, Hdena was unusually gentle, and the professor
noticed that she was wearing a new morning-gown trimmed
with lace, which suited her admirably.

\ y

v/

210 CORINNA

As he was helping himself to sugar, his hand acddentaUy
touched hers.

'^I beg your pardon, dear," she said with an e9q>ression
on her face which he had never seen before. She looked
like a young girl.

They talked about indifferent things.

On the same day Parliament openeid.

Helena's yielding mood lasted and she grew more and
more affectionate.

The period allowed for the introduction of new bills
drew to a close.

One evening the professor came home from his club
in an unusually gay frame of mind. He went to bed with
his paper and his cigar. After a while he heard Helena's
door creak. Silence, lasting for a few minutes, followed.
Then there came a knock at his door.

"Who is there?" he shouted.

"It's I, Albert, do dress and come into the drawing-room,
I want to speak to you."

He dressed and went into the drawing-room.

Helena had lighted the chandelier and was sitting on the
sofa, dressed in her lace morning-gown.

"Do forgive me," she said, "but I can't sleep. My head
feels so strange. Come here and talk to me."

"You are all unstrung, little girl," said Albert, taking
her hand in his own. "You ought to take some wine."

He went into the dining-room and returned with a
decanter and two glasses.

"Your health, darling," he said.

Helena drank and her cheeks caught fire.

"What's wrong?" he asked, putting his arm round her
waist.

"I'm not happy," she replied.

He was conscious that the words sounded dry and arti-
ficial, but his passion was roused and he didn't care.

"Do you know why you are unhappy?" he asked.

"No. I only know one thing, and that is that I love
you."

Albert caught her in his arms and kissed her face.

"^e you my wife, or aren't you?" he whispered hoarsdy»

v-"

CORINNA 211

"I am your wife," breathed Helena, collapsing, as if
every nerve in her body had snapped.

"Altogether?" he whispered paralysing her with his
kisses.

"Altogether," she moaned, moving convulsively, like a
sleeper struggling with the horrors of a nightmare.

When Albert awoke, he felt refreshed, his head was
clear and he was fully conscious of what had happened in
the night. He could think vigorously and logically like
a man after a deep and restful sleep. The whole scene
stood vividly before his mind. He saw the full significance
of it, imvamished, undisguised, in the sober light of the
morning.

She had sold herself!

At three o'clock in the morning, intoxicated with love,
blind to everything, half insane, he had promised to intro- ^
duce her bill.

And the price I She had given herself to him calmly, v^
coldly, unmoved.

Who was the first woman who found out that she could
sell her favour? And who was the woman who discovered
that man is a buyer? Whoever she was, she was the
founder of marriage and prostitution. And they say that
marriages are made in heaven I

He realised his degradation and hers. She wanted to
triumph over her friends, to be the first woman who had l
taken an active share in the making of her country's laws;
for the sake of this triumph she had sold herself.

Well, he would tear the mask from her face. He would
show her what she really was. He would tell her that
prostitution could never be abolished while women found
an advantage in selling themselves.

With his mind firmly made up, he got out of bed and
dressed.

He had to wait a little for her in the dining-room. He
rehearsed the scene which would follow and pulled him-
self together to meet her.

She came in calm^ smiling, triumphant, but more beau-
tiful than he had ever seen her before. A sombre fire burnt

212 CORINNA

in her eyes, and he, who had expected that she would
meet him with blushes and down-cast eyes, was cruahed
She was the triumphant seducer, and he the bashful
victim.

The words he had meant to say refused to come. Dis*
armed and humble he went to meet her and kissed her
hand.

She talked as usual without the slightest indication that
a new factor had entered her life.

He went to the House, fuming, with her bill in his
pocket, and only the vision of the bliss in store for Mm,
calmed his excited nerves.

But when, in the evening, he knocked quite boldly at
her door, it remained closed.

It remained closed for three weeks. He cringed before
her like a dog, obeyed every hint, fulfilled all her widies —
it was all in vain.

Then his indignation got the better of him and he over-
whelmed her with a flood of angry words. She answered
him sharply. But when she realised that she had gone
too far, that his chain was wearing thin, she gave hi^sdf
to him.

And he wore his chain. He bit it, strained every nerve
to break it, but it held.

She soon learned how far she could go, and whenever
he became restive, she yielded.

He was seized with a fanatical longing to make her
a mother. He thought it might make a woman of her,
bring out all that was good and wholesome in her. But
the future seemed to hold no promise on that score.

Had ambition, the selfish passion of the individual, de-
stroyed the source of life? He wondered. . . .

O^e morning she informed him that she was going away
for a few days to stay with her friends.

When he came home on the evening of the day of her
departure and found the house empty, his soul was tor-
mented by a cruel feeling of loss and longing. All of a
sudden it became clear to him that he loved ha: with
every fibre of his being. The house seemed desolate; it
was just as if a funeral had taken place. When dinner was

CORINNA 213

served he stared at her vacant chair and hardly touched
his food.

After supper he lit the chandelier in the drawing-room.
He sat down in her comer of the sofa. He fingered her
needlework which she had left behind — ^it was a tiny jacket
for a stranger's baby in a newly-founded criche. There
was the ne^e, still sticking in the calico, just as she had
left it. He pricked his finger with it as if to find solace
in the ecstasy of pain.

Presently he lighted a candle and went into her bed-
room. As he stood on the threshold, he shaded the flame
with his hand and looked round like a man who is about
to commit a crime. The room did not betray the slightest
trace of femininity. A narrow bed without curtains; a
writing-table, boo^helves, a smaller table by the side of
her b^, a sofa. Just like his own room. There was no
dressing-table, but a little mirror hung on the wall.

Her dress was hanging on a nail. The lines of her
body were clearly defined on the thick, heavy serge. He
caressed the material and hid his f^ce in the lace which
trimmed the neck; he put his arm round the waist, but
the dress collapsed like a phantom. "They say the soul
is a spirit,'' he mused, "but then, it ought to be a tangible
spirit, at least." He approached the bed as if he expected
to see an apparition. He touched everything, took every-
thing in his hand.

At last, as if he were looking for something, something
which should help him to solve the problem, he began to
tug at the handles which ornamented the drawers of her
¥rri ting- table; all the drawers were locked. As if by acci-
dent he opened the drawer of the little table by her bed-
side, and hastily closed it again, but not before he had
read the title on the paper-cover of a small book and caught
sight of a few strange-looking objects, the piupose of which
he could guess.

That was it then I Facultative SterUUyt What was
intended for a remedy for die lower dasses, who have been
robbed of the means of existence, had become an instru-
ment in the service of selfishness, the last consequence of
idealism. Were the upper classes so degenerate that they

214 CORINNA

refused to reproduce their species, or were they morally cor-
rupt? They must be both, for they considered it immoral
to bring illegitimate children into the world, and degrading
to bear children in wedlock.

But he wanted children! He could afford to have them,
and he considered it a duty as well as a glorious privfl^e
to ix)ur his individuality into a new being. It was Nature's
way from a true and healthy egoism towards altruism.
But she travelled on another road and made jackets for the
babies of strangers. Was that a better, a nobler thing
to do? It stood for so much, and yet was nothing but
fear of the burden of motherhood, and it was cheaper
and less fatiguing to sit in the comer of a comfortable sofa
and make little jackets than to bear the toil and broil of
a nursery.

It was looked upon as a disgrace to be a woman, to have
a sex, to become a mother.

That was it. They called it working for Heaven, for
higher interests, for humanity, but it was merely a pan-
dering to vanity, to selfishness, to a desire for fame or
notoriety.

And he had pitied her, he had suffered remorse because
her sterility had made him angry. She had told him once
that he deserved ^^the contempt of all good and honest
men" because he had failed to speak of sterile women witih
the respect due to misfortune; she had told him that they
were sacred, because their sorrow was the bitterest sorrow
a woman could have to bear.

What, after all, was this woman working for? For
progress? For the salvation of humanity? No, she was
working against progress, against freedom and enlighten-
ment. Hadn't she recently brought forward a motion to
limit religious liberty? Wasn't she the author of a pam-
phlet on the intractability of servants? Wasn't she advo-
cating greater severity in the administration of the military
laws? Was she not a supporter of the party which strives
to ruin our girls by giving them the same miserable educa-
tion which our boys receive?

He hated her soul, for he hated her ideas. And yet he
loved her? What was it then that he loved?

CORINNA 215

Probably, he reflected, compelled to take refuge in phi-
losophy, probably the germ of a new being, which she
carries in her womb, but which she is bent on killing.

What else could it be?

But what did she love in him? His title, his position,
his influence?

How could these old and worn-out men and women re-
build society?

He meant to tell her all this when she returned home;
but in his inmost soul he knew all the time that the words
would never be said. He knew that he would grovel be-
fore her and whine for her favour; that he would remain
her slave and sell her his soul again and again, just as
she sold him her body. He knew that that was what he
would do, for he was head over ears in love with her.

UNMARRIED AND MARRIED

THE young barrister was strolling on a lovely spring
evening through the old Stockholm Hop-Garden.
Snatches of song and music came from the pavilion; light
streamed through the large windows and lit up the shadows
cast by the great lime trees which were just bursting into

leaf.

He went in, sat down at a vacant table near the plat-
form and asked for a glass of punch.

A yoimg comedian was singing a pathetic ballad of a
Dead Rat. Then a young girl, dressed in pink, appeared
arid sang the Danish song: There is nothing so charming
as a moonshine ride. She was comparatively innocent look-
ing and she addressed her song to our innocent barrister.
He felt flattered by this mark of distinction, and at once
started negotiations which began with a bottle of wine
and ended in a furnished fiat, containing two rooms, a
kitchen and all the usual conveniences.

It is not within the scope of this little story to analyse
the feelings of the young man, or give a description of
the furniture and the other conveniences. It must suffice
if I say that they were very good friends.

But, imbued with the socialistic tendencies of our time,
and desirous of having his lady-love alwajrs under his eyes,
the young man decided to live in the fiat himself and make
his little friend his house keeper. She was delighted at
the suggestion.

But the young man had a family, that is to say, his
family looked upon him as one of its members, and since
in their opinion he was committing an offence against mo-
rality, and casting a slur on their good name, he was simi-
moned to appear before the assembled parents, brothers
and sisters in order to be censured. He considered that
he was too old for such treatment and the family tie was
ruptured.

217

2i8 UNMARRIED AND MARRIED

This made him all the more fond of his own little home,
and he developed into a very domesticated husband, excuse
me, lover. They were happy, for they loved one another,
and no fetters bound them. They lived in the happy dread
of losing one another and therefore they did their utmost
to keep each other's love. They were indeed one.

But there was one thing which they lacked: they had
no friends. Society displayed no wish to know them, and
the young man was not asked to the houses of the "Upper
Ten."

It was Christmas Eve, a day of sadness for all those
who once had a family. As he was sitting at breakfast,
he received a letter. It was from his sister, who implored
him to spend Christmas at home, with his parents. The
letter touched upon the strings of old feelings and put
him in a bad temper. Was he to leave his Uttle friend
alone on Christmas Eve? Certainly not! Should his place
in the house of his parents remain vacant for the first time
on a Christmas Eve? H'ml This was the position of
affairs when he went to the Law Courts.

During the interval for lunch a colleague came up to
him and asked him as discreetly as possible:

"Are you going to spend Christmas Eve with your
family?"

He flared up at once. Was his friend aware of his
position? Or what did he mean?

The other man saw that he had stepped on a com, and
added hastily, without waiting for a reply:

"Because if you are not, you might spend it with us.
You know, perhaps, that I have a little friend, a dear
little soul."

It sounded all right and he accepted the invitation on
condition that they should both be invited. Well, but of
course, what else did he think? And this settled the prob-
lem of friends and Christmas Eve.

They met at six o'clock at the friend's flat, and while
the two "old men" had a glass of punch, the women weni
into the kitchen.

All four helped to lay the table. The two "old men''
knelt on the floor and tried to lengthen the table by means

UNMARRIED AND MARRIED 219

of boards and wedges. The women were on the best of
terms at once, for they felt bound together by that very
obvious tie which bears the great name of "public opinion."
rhey respected one another and saved one another's feel-
ings. They avoided those innuendoes -in which husbands
ind wives are so fond of indulging when their children are
act listening, just as if they wanted to say: "We have a
right to say Uiese things now we are married."

When they had eaten the pudding, the barrister made
i speech praising the delights of one's own fireside, that
refuge from the world and from all men: that harbour
vehere one spends one's happiest hours in the company
Df one's real friends.

Mary-Louisa began to cry, and when he urged her to
tell him the cause of her distress, and the reason of her
imhappiness, she told him in a voice broken by sobs that
she could see that he was missing his mother and
sisters.

He replied that he did not miss them in the least, and
that he should wish them far away if they happened to
turn up now.

"But why couldn't he marry her?"

"Weren't they as good as married?"

"No, they weren't married properly."

"By a clergyman? In his opinion a clergyman was
nothing but a student who had passed his examinations,
and his incantations were pure mythology."

"That was beyond her, but she knew that something
wss wrong, and tlie other people in the house pointed their
Angers at her."

"Let them point I"

Sophy joined in the conversation. She said she knew
that they were not good enough for his relations; but
she didn't mind. Let everybody keep his own place
and be content.

Anyhow, they had friends now, and lived together in
liarmony, which is more than could be said of many prop-
erly constituted families. The tie which held them to-
^edier remained intact, but they were otherwise unfettered,
rhey continued being lovers without contracting any bad

220 UNMARRIED AND MARRIED

matrimonial habits, as, for example, the habit of being rude
to one another.

After a year or two their imion was blest with a son.
The mistress had thereby risen to the rank of a mother,
and everything else was forgotten. The pangs which she
had endured at the birth of the baby, and her care for
the newly born infant, had purged her of her old selfish
claims to all the good things of the earth, including the
monopoly of her husband's love.

In her new role as mother she gave herself superior little
airs with her friend, and showed a little more assurance in
her intercourse with her lover.

One day the latter came home with a great piece of
news. He had met his eldest sister in the street and had
found her well informed on all their private affairs. She
was very anxious to see her little nephew and had promised '
to pay them a call.

Mary-Louisa was surprised, and at once began to sweep
and dust the flat; in addition she insisted on a new dress
for the occasion. And then she waited for a whole week.
The curtains were sent to the laundry, the brass knobs
on the doors of the stoves were made to shine, the furni-
ture was polished. The sister should see that her brother
was living with a decent person.

And then she made coffee, one morning at eleven o'clock,
the time when the sister would call.

She came, straight as if she had swallowed a poker,
and gave Mary-Louisa a hand which was as stiff as a bat-
ting staff. She examined the bed-room furniture, but re-
fused to drink coffee, and never once looked her sister-in-law
in the face. But she showed a faint, though genuine, inter-
est in the baby. Then she went away again. ^

Mary-Louisa in the meantime had carefully exammed
her coat, priced the material of her dress and conceived
a new idea of doing her hjair. She had not expected any
great display of cordiality. As a start, the fact of the visit
was quite sufficient in. itself, and she soon let the house
know that her sister-in-law had called.

The boy grew up and by and by a baby sister arrived.

UNMARRIED AND MARRIED 221

Now Mary-Louisa began to show the most tender solici-
tude for the future of the children, and not a day passed
but she tried to convince their father that nothing but a
legal marriage with her would safeguard their interests.

In addition to this his sister gave him a very plain hint
to the effect that a reconciliation with his parents was
within the scope of possibility, if he would but legalise his
liaison.

After having fought against it day and night for two
years, he consented at last, and resolved that for the chil-
dren's sake the mythological ceremony should be allowed
to take place.

But whom should they ask to the wedding? Mary-Louisa
insisted on being married in church. In this case Sophy
could not be invited. That was an impossibility. A girl
like her! Mary-Louisa had already learnt to pronounce the
word "girl" with a decidedly moral accent. He reminded
her that Sophy had been a good friend to her, and that
ingratitude was not a very fine quality. Mary-Louisa,
however, pointed out that parents must be prepared to sac-
rifice private S3anpathies at the altar of their children's
prospects; and she carried the day.

The wedding took place.

The wedding was over. No invitation arrived from his
parents, but a furious letter from Sophy which resulted
in a complete rupture.

Mary-Louisa was a wedded wife, now. But she was
more lonely than she had been before. Embittered by her
disappointment, sure of her husband who was now legally
tied to her, she began to take all those liberties which
married people look upon as their right. What she had
once regarded in the light of a voluntary gift, she now
considered a tribute due to her. She entrenched herself
behind the honourable title of "the mother of his chil-
dren," and from there she made her sallies.

Simple-minded, as all duped husbands are, he could never
grasp what constituted the sacredness in the fact that she
was the mother of his children. Why his children should
be different from other children, and from himself, was
a riddle to him.

222 UNMARRIED AND MARRIED

But, with an easy conscience, because his children had
a legal mother now, he commenced to take again an in-
terest in the world which he had to a certain extent for-
gotten in the first ecstasy of his love-dream, and which
later on he had neglected, because he hated to leave his
wife and children done.

These liberties displeased his wife, and since there was
no necessity for her to mince matters now, and she was
of an outspoken disposition, she made no secrets of her
thoughts.

But he had all the lawyer's tricks at his fingers' ends,
and was never at a loss for a r^ly.

"Do you think it right," she asked, "to leave the mother
of your children alone at home with them, while you
spend your time at a public house?"

"I don't believe you missed me," he answered by way
of a preliminary.

"Missed you? If the husband spends the housekeeping
money on drink, the wife will miss a great many things
in the house."

"To start with I don't drink, for I merely have a mouth-^
ful of food and drink a cup of coffee; secondly, I don't
spend the housekeeping money on drink, for you keep it
locked up: I have other funds which I spend 'on drink.' "

Unfortunately women cannot stand satire, and the noose^
made in fun, was at once thrown round his neck.

"You do admit, then, that you drink?"

"No, I don't, I used your expression in fun."

"In fun? You are making fun of your wife? You nevtr
used to do thatl"

"You wanted the marriage ceremony. Why are things
so different now?"

"Because we are married, of course."

"Partly because of that, and partly because intoxication
has the quality of passing off."

"It was only intoxication in your case, then?"

"Not only in my case; in your case, too, and in all others
as well. It passes off more or less quickly."

"And so love is nothing but intoxication as far as a
man is concerned!"

UNMARRIED AND MARRIED 223

-*As far as a woman is concerned too!"

"Nothing but intoxication!"

"Quite so! But there is no reason why one shouldn't
remain friends."

"One need not get married for that!"

"No; and that's exactly what I meant to point out."

"You? Wasn't it you who insisted on our marriage?"

"Only because you worried me about it day and night
three long years."

"But it was your wish, too!"

"Only because you wished it. Be grateful to me now
that youVe got it!"

"Shall I be grateful because you leave the mother of
your children alone with them while you spend your time
at the public-house?"

"No, not for that, but because I married you!"

"You really think I ought to be grateful for that?"

"Yes, like all decent people who have got their way!"

"Well, there is no happiness in a marriage like ours,
four family doesn't acknowledge me!"

"What have you got to do with my family? I haven't
aarried yours?"

"Because you didn't think it good enough!"

"But mine was good enough for you. If they had been
shoemakers, you wouldn't mind so much."

"You talk of shoemakers as if they were beneath
your notice. Aren't they human beings like everybody
else?"

"Of course they are, but I don't think you would have
run after them."

"All right! Have your own way."

But it was not all right, and it was never again all right.
Was it due to the fact of their being married, or was
it due to something else? Mary-Louisa could not help
admitting in her heart that the old times had been bet-
ter times; they had been "jollier" she said.

He did not think that it was only owing to the fact
that their marriage had been legalised for he had observed
that other marriages, too, were not happy. And the worst
iof it all was this: when one day he went to see his old

224 UNMARRIED AND MARRIED

friend and Sophy, as he sometimes did, behind his wife's
back, he was told that there was an end to that matter.
And they had not been married. So it could not have been
marriage which was to blame.

A DUEi;

SHE was plain and therefore the coarse young men
who don't know how to appreciate a beautiful soul
in an ugly body took no notice of her. But she was wealthy,
and she knew that men run after women for the sake of
their wealth; whether they do it because all wealth has
been created by men and they therefore claim the capital
for their sex, or on other grounds, was not quite clear
to her. As she was a rich woman, she learned a good
many things, and as she distrusted and despised men, she
was considered an intellectual young woman.

She had reached the age of twenty. Her mother was
still alive, but she had no intention to wait for another
five years before she became her own mistress. Therefore
she quite suddenly surprised her friends with an announce-
ment of her engagement.

^'She is marrying because she wants a husband," said
some.

''She is marrying because she wants a footman and her
liberty," said others.

"How stupid of her to get married," said the third;
"she doesn't know that she will be even less her own
mistress than she is now."

"Don't be afraid," said the fourth, "shell hold her own
in spite of her marriage."

What was he like? Who was he? Where had she found
him?

He was a young lawyer, rather effeminate in appearance,
with broad hips and a shy manner. He was an only son,
brought up by his mother and aunt. He had always been
very much afraid of girls, and he detested the officers on
account of their assurance, and because they were the fa-
vourites at all entertainments. That is what he was like.

They were staying at a watering place and met at a
dance. He had come late and all the girls' programmes

225

226y A DUEL

were full. A laughing, triumphant "Nol" was flung into
his face wherever he asked for a dance, and a movement
of the programme brushed him away as if he were a buz-
zing fly.

Offended and humiliated he left the ball-room and sat
down on the verandah to smoke a cigar. The moon threw
her light on the lime-trees in the Park and the perfimie
of the mignonette rose from the flower beds.

He watched the dancing couples through the windows
with the impotent yearning of the cripple; the voluptuous
rhythm of the waltz thrilled him through and through.

"All alone and lost in dreams?" said a voice suddenly.
"Why aren't you dancing?"

"Why aren't you?" he replied, looking up.

"Because I am plain and nobody asked me to," she
answered.

He looked at her. They had known each other for some
time, but he had never studied her features. She was ex-
quisitely dressed, and in her eyes lay an expression of
infinite pain, the pain of despair and vain revolt against
the injustice of nature; he felt a lively sympathy for her.

"I, too, am scorned by everybody," he said. "All the
rights belong to the officers. Whenever it is a question
of natural selection, right is on the side of the strong
and the beautiful. Look at their shoulders and epau-
lettes ..."

"How can you talk like that!"

"I beg your pardon! To have to play a losing game
makes a man bitter! Will you give me a dance?"

"For pity's sake?"

"Yes! Out of compassion for me!"

He threw away his cigar.

"Have you ever known what it means to be marked by
the hand of fate, and rejected? To be alwa3rs the last?"
he began again, passionately.

"I have known all that! But the last do not always re-
main the last," she added, emphatically. "There are other
qualities, besides beauty, which count."

"What quality do you appreciate most in a man?"

"Kindness," she exclaimed, without the slightest hesi-

A DUEL 227

tation. "For this is a quality very rarely found in a
man."

"Kindness and weakness usually go hand in hand;
women admire strength."

"What sort of women are you talking about? Rude
strength has had its day; our civilisation has reached a
sufficiently high standard to make us value muscles and
rude strength no more highly than a kind heart."

"It ought to have! And yet — ^watch the dancing
couples!"

"To my mind true manliness is shown in loftiness of
sentiment and intelligence of the heart."

"Consequently a man whom the whole world calls weak
and cowardly . . ."

"What do I care for the world and its opinion!"

"Do you know that you are a very remarkable woman?"
said the young lawyer, feeling more and more inter-
ested.

"Not in the least remarkable! But you men are accus-
tomed to regard women as dolls . . ."

"What sort of men do you mean? I, dear lady, have
from my childhood looked up to woman as a higher mani-
festation of the species man, and from the day on which
I fell in love with a woman, and she returned my love, I
should be her slave."

Adeline looked at him long and searchingly.

"You are a remarkable man," she said, after a pause.

After each of the two had declared the other to be a
remarkable specimen of the species man, and made a good
many remarks on the futility of dancing, they began to
talk of the melancholy influence of the moon. Then they
returned to the ball-room and took their place in a set of
quadrilles.

Adeline was a perfect dancer and the lawyer won her
heart completely because he "danced like an innocent
girl."

When the set was over, they went out again on the
verandah and sat down.

"What is love?" asked Adeline, looking at the moon as
if she expected an answer from heaven.

228 A DUEL

"The sympathy of the souls/' he replied, and his voice
sounded like the whispering breeze.

"But S3mipathy may turn to antipathy; it has happened
frequently," objected Adeline.

"Then it wasn't genuine! There are materialists who
say that there would be no such thing as love if there
weren't two sexes, and they dare to maintain that sensual
love is more lasting than Uie love of the soul. Don't you
think it low and bestial to see nothing but sex in the
beloved woman?"

"Don't speak of the materialists I" .

"Yes, I must, so that you may realise the loftiness of
my feelings for a woman, if ever I fell in love. She need
not be beautiful; beauty soon fades. I should look upon
her as a dear friend, a chum. I should never feel shy
in her company, as with any ordinary girl. I should ap-
proach her without fear, as I am approaching you, and I
should say: Will you be my friend for life?' I should
be able to speak to her without the slightest tremor of that
nervousness which a lover is supposed to feel when he
proposes to the object of his tenderness, because his thoughts
are not pure."

Adeline looked at the yoimg man, who had taken her
hand in his, with enraptured eyes.

"You are an idealist," she said, "and I agree with you
from the very bottom of my heart. You are asking for
my friendship, if I understand you rightly. It shall be
yours, but I must put you to the test first. Will you
prove to me that you can pocket your pride for the sake
of a friend?"

"Speak and I shall obey I"

Adeline took off a golden chain with a locket which
she had been wearing round her neck.

"Wear this as a S3mibol of our friendship."

"I will wear it," he said, in an uncertain voice; "but it
might make the people think that we are engaged."

"And do you object?"

"No, not if you don't! Will you be my wife?"

"Yes, Axel! I will! For the world looks askance at
friendship between man and woman; the world is so base

A DUEL 229

that it refuses to believe in the possibility of such a
thing."

And he wore the chain.

The world, which is very materialistic at heart, repeated
the verdict of her friends:

"She marries him in order to be married; he marries
her because he wants a wife."

The world made nasty remarks, too. It said that he
was marrying her for the sake of her money; for hadn't
he himself declared that anything so degrading as love
did not exist between them? There was no need for
friends to live together like married couples.

The wedding took place. The world had received a hint
that they woidd live together like brother and sister, and
the world awaited with a malicious grin the result of the
great reform which should put matrimony on another basis
altogether.

The newly married couple went abroad.

When they returned, the young wife was pale and ill-
tempered. She began at once to take riding-lessons. The
world scented misdiief and waited. The man looked as if
he were guilty of a base act and was ashamed of himself.
It all came out at last.

"They have not been living like brother and sister,"
said the world.

"What? Without loving one another? But that ifr— r
well, what is it?"

"A forbidden relationship!" said the materialists.

"It is a spiritual marriage!"

"Or incest," suggested an anarchist.

Facts remained facts, but the S3rmpathy was on the
wane. Real life, stripped of All make-believe,confronted
them and began to take revenge.

The lawyer practised his profession, but the wife's
profession was practised by a maid and a nurse. There-
fore she had no occupation. The want of occupation en«
couraged brooding, and she brooded a great deal over her
position. She found it unsatisfactory. Was it right that
an intellectual woman like her should spend her days in
idleness?

230 A DUEL

Once her husband had ventured to remark that no
one compelled her to live m idleness. He never did it
again.

"She had no profession."

"True; to be idle was no profession. Why didn't she
nurse the baby?"

"Nurse the baby? She wanted a profession which
brought in money."

"Was she such a miser, then? She had already more
than she knew how to spend; why should she want to
earn money?"

"To be on an equal footing with him."

"That could never be, for she would always be in a
position to which he could never hope to attain. It was
nature's will that the woman was to be the mother, not
the man."

"A very stupid arrangement!"

"Very likely! The opposite might have been the case,
but that would have been equally stupid."

"Yes; but her life was unbearable. It didn't satisfy her
to live for the family only, she wanted to live for others
as well."

"Hadn't she better begin with the family? There was
plenty of time to think of the others."

The conversation might have continued through all eter^
nity; as it was it only lasted an hour.

The lawyer was, of course, away almost all day long,
and even when he was at home he had his consulting
hours. It drove Adeline nearly mad. He was always locked
in his consulting-room with other women who confided in-
formation to him which he was bound to keep secret. These
secrets formed a barrier between them, and made her feel
that he was more than a match for her.

It roused a sullen hatred in her heart; she resented the
injustice of their mutual relationship; she sought for a
means to drag him down. Come down he must, so that
they should be on the same level.

One day she proposed the foundation of a sanatorium.
He said all he could against it, for he was very busy with
his practice. But on further consida'ation he diought that

A DUEL 231

occupation of some sort might be the saving of her; per-
haps it would help her to settle down.

The sanatorium was founded; he was one of the
directors.

She was on the Committee and ruled. When she had
luled for six months, she imagined herself so well up in
the art of healing that she interviewed ' patients and gave
them advice.

"It's easy enough," she said.

Then it happened that the house-surgeon made a mis-
take, and she straightway lost all confidence in him. It
further happened that one day, in the full consciousness
of her superior wisdom, she prescribed for a patient her-
self, in the doctor's absence. The patient had the prescrip-
tion made up, took it and died.

This necessitated a removal to another centre of ac-
tivity. But it disturbed the equilibrium. A second child,
which was bom about the same time, disturbed it still
more and, to make matters worse, a rumour of the fatal
accident was spreading through the town.

The relations between husband and wife were unlovely
and sad, for there had never been any love between them.
The healthy, powerful natural instinct, which does not
reflect, was absent; what remained was an unpleasant
liaison founded on the uncertain calculations of a selfish
friendship.

She never voiced the thoughts hatched behind her burn-
ing brow after she had discovered that she was mistaken
in believing that she had a higher mission, but she made
her husband sufifer for it.

Her health failed; she lost her appetite and refused to
go out. She grew thin and seemed to be suffering from
a chronic cough. The husband made her repeatedly un-
dergo medical examinations, but the doctors were unable
to discover the cause of her malady. In the end he became
so accustomed to her constant complaints that he paid
no more attention to them.

"I know it's unpleasant to have an invalid wife," she
said.

He admitted in his heart that it was anything but pleas-

2j2 A DUEL

ant; had he loved her, he would neither have felt
admitted it. :

Her emaciation became so alarming, that he could nok
snut his eyes to it any longer, and had to consent to he{r
suggestion that she should consult a famous professor.

Adeline was examined by the celebrity. ''How long have
you been ill?" he asked.

"I have never been very strong since I left the country,"
she replied. "I was bom in the country."

"Then you don't feel well in town?"

"Well? Who cares whether I feel well or not?" And
her face assumed an expression which left no room tor
doubt: she was a martyr.

"Do you think that country air would do you good?"
continued the professor.

"Candidly, I believe that it is the only thing which
could save my life."

"Then why don't you live in the country?"

"My husband couldn't give up his profession for my
sake."

"He has a wealthy wife and we have plenty of lawyers."

'*You think, then, that we ought to live in tie country?"

"Certainly, if you believe that it would do you good.
You are not suffering from any organic disease, but your
nerves are imstrung; country air would no doubt benefit
you."

Adeline returned home to her husband very depressed.

"Well?"

"The professor had sentenced her to death if she re-
mained in town."

The lawyer was much upset. But since the fact that
his distress was mainly caused by the thought of giving
up his practice was very apparent, she held that she
had absolute proof that the question of her health was
a matter of no importaiice to him.

"What? He didn't believe that it was a matter of life
and death? Didn't he think the professor knew better
than he? Was he going to let her die?"

He was not going to let her die. He bought an estate

1 the country and engaged an inspector to look after it.

A DUEL 233

As a sheriff and a disitrict- judge were living on the spot,
the lawyer had no occupation. The days seemed to him
as endless as they were unpleasant. Since his income had
stopped with his practice, he was compelled to live on his
wife's money. In the first six months he read a great
deal and played 'Tortuna." In the second six months
he gave up reading, as it served no object. In the third
he amused himself by doing needle-work.

His wife, on the other hand, devoted herself to the farm,
pinned up her skirts to the knees and went into the stables.
She came into the house dirty, and smelling of the cow-
shed. She felt well and ordered the labourers about that
it was a pleasure to hear her, for she had grown up in the
country and knew what she was about.

When her husband complained of having nothing to do,
she laughed at him.

"Find some occupation in the house. No one need
ever be idle in a house like this."

He would have liked to suggest some outside occupation,
but he had not the courage.

He ate, slept, and went for walks. If he happened to
enter the bam or the stables, he was sure to be in the
way and be scolded by his wife.

One day, when he had grumbled more than usual, while
the children had been running about, neglected by the
nurse, she said:

"Why don't you look after the children? That would
give you something to do."

He stared at her. Did she really mean it?

"Well, why shouldn't he look after the diildren? Was
there anything strange in her suggestion?"

He thought the matter over and found nothing strange
in it. Henceforth he took the children for a walk every
day.

One morning, when he was ready to go out, the
children were not dressed. The lawyer felt angry and
went grumbling to his wife; of the servants he was
afraid.
. "Why aren't the children dressed?" he asked.

"Because Mary is busy with other things. Why don't yi

234 A DUEL

dress them? YouVe nothing else to do. Do you consider
it degrading to dress your own children?"

He considered the matter for a while, but could see noth-
ing degrading in it. He dressed them.

One day he lelt inclined to take his gun and go out by
himself, although he never shot anything.

His wife met him on his return.

"Why didn't you take the children for a walk this morn-
ing?" she asked sharply and reproachfully.

"Because I didn't feel inclined to do so."

"You didn't feel inclined? Do you think I want to
work all day long in stable and bam? One ought to do
something useful during the day, even if it does go against
one's inclination."

"So as to pay for one's dinner, you mean?"

"If you like to put it that way! If I were a big man
like you, I should be ashamed to be l3dng all day long
on a sofa, doing nothing."

He really felt ashamed, and henceforth he established
himself the children's nurse. He never failed in his duties.
He saw no disgrace in it, yet he was unhappy. Something
was wrong, somewhere, he thought, but his wife alwa3rs
managed to carry her point.

She sat in the office and interviewed inspector and over-
seer; she stood in the store-room and weighed out stores
for the cottagers. Everybody who came on the estate asked
for the mistress, nobody ever wanted to see the master.

One day he took the children past a field in which
cattle were grazing. He wanted to show them the cows
and cautiously took them up to the grazing herd. All
at once a black head, raised above the backs of the other
animals, stared at the visitors, bellowing softly.

The lawyer picked up the children and ran back to
the fence as hard as he could. He threw them over and
tried to jump it himself, but was caught on the top. No-
ticing some women on the other side, he shouted:

"The buUl the bull I"

But the women merely laughed, and went to pull the
children, whose clothes were covered with mud, out of
the ditch.

A DUEL 23s

"Don't you see the bull?" he screamed.

"It's no bull, sir," replied the eldest of the women, "the
bull was killed a fortnight ago."

He came home, angry and ashamed and complained of
the women to his wife. But she only laughed.

In the afternoon, as husband and wife were together
in the drawing-room, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in!" she called out.

One of the women who had witnessed the adventure with
the bull came in, holding in her hand the lawyer's gold
chain.

"I believe this belongs to you, M'm," she said hesi-
tatingly.

Adeline looked first at the woman and then at her hus-
band, who stared at the chain with wide-open eyes.

"No, it belongs to your master," she said, taking the
profifered chain. "Thank you! Your master will give
you something for finding it."

He was sitting there, pale and motionless.

"I have no money, ask my wife to give you something,"
he said, taking the necklet.

Adeline took a crown out of her big purse and handed
it to the woman, who went away, apparently without un**
derstanding the scene.

"You might have spared me this humiliation!" he said,
and his voice plainly betrayed the pain he felt.

"Are you not man enough to take the responsibility for
your words and actions on your own shoulders? Are you
ashamed to wear a present I gave you, while you expect
me to wear yours? You're a coward! And you imagine
yourself to be a man!"

Henceforth the poor lawyer had no peace. Wherever
he went, he met grinning faces, and farm-labourers and
maid-servants from the safe retreat of sheltered nooks,
shouted "the bull! the bull!" whenever he went past.

Adeline had resolved to attend an auction and stay away
for a week. She asked her husband to look after tihe serv-
ants in her absence.

On the first day the cook came and asked him for money
for sugar and coffee. He gave it to her. Three da}rs later

^6 A DUEL

she came again and asked him for the same thing. He
expressed surprise at her having akeady spent what he had
given her.

"I don't want it all for myself," she rqplied, ''and mis-
tress doesn't mind."

He gave her the money. But, wondering whether he had
made a mistake, he opened his wife's account book and
began to add up the columns.

He arrived at a strange result. When he had added
up all the pounds for a month, he found it came to a
lispound.

He continued checking her figures, and the result was
everywhere the same. He took the principal ledger and
found that, leaving the high figures out of the questicm,
very stupid mistakes in the additions had been made. Evi-
dently Us wife knew nothing of denominate quantities or
decimal fractions. This unheard of cheating of the serv-
ants must certainly lead to ruin.

His wife came home. After having listened to a de^
tailed account of the auction, he cleared his throat, intend-
ing to tell his tale, but his wife anticipated his report:

''Well, and how did you get on with the servants?"

''Oh! very well, but I am certain that they cheat you."

"Cheat me!"

"Yes; for instance the amount spent on coffee and sugar
is too large."

"How do you know?"

"I saw it in your account book."

"Indeed! You poked your nose into my books?"

"Poked my nose into your books? No, but I took it
upon me to check your ..."

"What business was it of yours?"

"And I found that you keep books without having the
slightest knowledge of denominate quantities or decimal
fractions."

"What? You thmk I don't know?"

"No, you don't! And therefore the foundations of the
establishment are shaky. Your book-keeping is all humbug,
old girl!"

"My book-keeping concerns no one but mysdf."

A DUEL 237

^'Incorrect book-keeping is an offence punishable by
law; if you are not liable, then I am."

"The law? I care a fig for the law!"

"I daresay! But we shall get into its clutches, if not
you, then most certainly I! And therefore I am going ta
be book-keeper in the future."

"We can engage a man to do it."

"No, that's not necessary! I have nothing else to do."

And that settled the matter.

But once the husband occupied the chair at the desk
and the people came to see him, the wife lost all interest
in farming and cattle-breeding.

A violent reaction set in; she no longer attended to the
cows and calves, but remained in the house. There she
sat, hatching fresh plots.

But the husband had regained a fresh hold on life. He
took an eager interest in the estate and woke up the people.
Now he held the reins; managed everything, gave orders
and paid the bills.

One day his wife came into the office and asked him
for a thousand crowns to buy a piano.

"What are you thinking of?" said the husband. "Just
when we are going to re-build the stables! We haven't the
means to buy a piano."

"What do you mean?" she replied. "Why haven't we
got the means? Isn't my money sufficient?"

"Your money?"

"Yes, my money, my dowry."

"That has now become the property of the family."

"That is to say yours?"

"No, the family's. The family is a small community,
the only one which possesses common property which, as
a rule, is administered by the husband."

"Why should he administer it and not the wife?"

"Because he has more time to give to it, since he doet
not bear children."

"Why couldn't they administer it jointly?"

"For the same reason that a joint stock company has
only one managing director. If the wife administered as

238 A DUEL

well, the children would daim the same right, for it is their
property, too."

"This is mere hair-splitting. I think it's hard that I
should have to ask your permission to buy a piano out of
my own money."

"It's no longer your money."

"But yours?"

"No, not mine either, but the family's. And you are
wrong when you say that you 'have to ask for my per-
mission'; it's merely wise that you should consult with the
administrator as to whether the position of affairs war-
rants your spending such a large sum on a luxury."

"Do you call a piano a luxury?"

"A new piano, when there is an old one, must be termed
a luxury. The position of our affairs is anything but satis-
factory, and therefore it doesn't permit you to buy a new
piano at present, but /, personally, can or will have noth-
ing to say against it."

"An expenditure of a thousand crowns doesnH mean
ruin."

"To incur a debt of a thousand crowns at the wrong
time may be the first step towards ruin."

"All this means that you refuse to buy me a new piano?"

"No, I won't say that. The uncertain position of
affairs*. . ."

"When, oh I when will the day dawn on which the wife
will manage her own affairs and have no need to go beg-
ging to her husband?"

"When she works herself. A man, your father, has earned
your money. The men have gained all the wealth there
is in the world; therefore it is but just that a sister should
inherit less than her brother, especially as the brother is
bom with the duty to provide for a woman, while the
sister need not provide for a man. Do you understand?"

"And you call that justice? Can you honestly main-
tain that it is? Ought we not all to share and share alike?"

"No, not always. One ought to share according to cir-
cumstances and merit. The idler who lies in the grass
and watches the mason building a house, should have a
smaller share than the mason."

A DUEL 239

"Do you mean to insinuate that I am lazy?"

"H'm! I'd rather not say anything about that. But
when I used to lie on the sofa, reading, you considered
me a loafer, and I well remember that you said something
to that effect in ver>^ plain language."

"But what am I to do?"

"Take the children out for walks."

"I'm not constituted to look after the children."

"But there was a time when I had to do it. Let me tell
you that a woman who says that she is not constituted to
look after children, isn't a woman. But that fact doesn't
make a man of her, by any means. What is she, then?"

"Shame on you that you should speak like that of the
mother of your children!"

"What does the world call a man who will have nothing
to do with women? Isn't it something very ugly?"

"I won't hear another word!"

And she left him and locked herself into her room.

She fell ill. The doctor, the almighty man, who took
over the care of the body when the priest lost the care of
the soul, pronounced country air and solitude to be harmful.

They were obliged to return to town so that the wife
could have proper medical treatment.

Town had a splendid effect on her health; the air of
the slums gave colour to her cheeks.

The lawyer practised his profession and so husband and
wife had found safety-valves for their temperaments which
refused to blend.

HIS SERVANT OR DEBIT AND CREDIT

MR. BLACKWOOD was a wharfinger at Brooklyn and
had married Miss Dankward, who brought him a
dowry of modem ideas. To avoid seeing his beloved wife
playing the part of his servant, Mr. Blackwood had taken
rooms in a boarding house.

The wife, who had nothing whatever to do, spent the
day in playing billiards and practising the piano, and half
the night in discussing Women's Rights and drinking whis-
kies and sodas.

The husband had a salary of five thousand dollars. He
handed over his money regularly to his wife who took
charge of it. She had, moreover, a dress allowance of
five hundred dollars with which she did as she liked.

Then a baby arrived. A nurse was engaged who, for
a hundred dollars, took upon her shoulders the sacred duties
of the mother.

Two more children were bom.

They grew up and the two eldest went to school. But
Mrs. Blackwood was bored and had nothing with which to
occupy her mind.

One morning she appeared at the breakfast table, slightly
intoxicated.

The husband ventured to tell her that her behaviour was
unseemly.

She had hysterics and went to bed, and all the other
ladies in the house called on her and brought her flowers.

"Why do you drink so much whisky?" asked her hus-
band, as kindly as possible. "Is there anything which
troubles you?"

"How could I be happy when my whole life is wasted 1"

"What do you mean by wasted? You are the mother
of three children and you might spend your time in edu-
cating them."

"I can't be bothered with children."

241

242 HIS SERVANT

"Then you ought to be bothered with them I You would
be benefiting the whole commimity and have a splendid
object in life, a far more honourable one, for instance,
than that of being a wharfinger."

"Yes, if I were free I"

"You are freer than I am. I am under your rule. You
decide how my earnings are to be spent. You have five
hundred dollars pin money to spend as you like; but I
have no pin money. I have to make an application to
the cash-box, in other words, to you, whenever I want
to buy tobacco. Don't you think that you are freer than
I am?"

She made no reply; she tried to think the question out.

The upshot of it was that they decided to have a home
of their own. And they set up house-keeping.

"My dear friend," Mrs. Blackwood wrote a little later
on to a friend of hers, "I am ill and tired to death. But I
must go on suffering, for there is no solace for an unhappy
woman who has no object in life. I will show the world
that I am not the sort of woman who is content to live
on her husband's boimty, and therefore I shall work myself
to death. . . ."

On the first day she rose at nine o'clock and turned out
her husband's room. Then she dismissed the cook and
at eleven o'clock she went out to do the catering for the
day.

When the husband came home at one o'clock, lunch was
not ready. It was the maid's fault.

Mrs. Blackwood was dreadfully tired and in tears. The
husband could not find it in his heart to complain. He ate
a burnt cutlet and went back to his work.

"Don't work so hard, darling," he said, as he was leaving.

In the evening his wife was so tired that she could not
finish her work and went to bed at ten o'clock.

On the following morning, as Mr. Blackwood went into
his wife's room to say good morning to her, he was amazed
at her healthy complexion.

"Have you slept well?" he asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because you are looking so well."

HIS SERVANT 243

"I — ^am — ^looking — ^well ? "

"Yes, a little occupation seems to agree with you."

"A little occupation? You call it little? I should like
to know what you would call much."

"Never mind, I didn't mean to annoy you."

"Yes, you did. You meant to imply that I wasn't work-
ing hard enough. And yet I turned out your room yes-
terday, just as if I were a house-maid, and stood in the
kitchen like a cook. Can you deny that I am your
servant?"

In going out the husband said to the maid:

"You had better get up at seven in future and do my
room. Your mistress shouldn't have to do your work."

In the evening Mr. Blackwood came home in high spirits
but his wife was angry with him.

"Why am I not to do your room?" she asked.

"Because I object to your being my servant."

"Why do you object?"

"The thought of it makes me unhappy."

"But it doesn't make you unhappy to think of me cook-
ing your dinner and attending to your children?"

This remark set him thinking.

He pondered the question during the whole of his tram
journey to Brookl)ai.

When he came home in the evening, he had done a
good deal of thinking.

"Now, listen to me, my love," he began, "I've thought
a lot about your position in the house and, of course, I
am far from wishing that you should be my servant. I
think the best thing to do is this: You must look upon me
as your boarder and I'll pay for myself. Then you'll be
mistress in the house, and I'll pay you for my dinner."

"What do you mean?" asked his wife, a little uneasy.

"What I say. Let's pretend that you keep a boarding-
house and that I'm your boarder. We'll only pretend it,
of course."

"Very well! And what are you going to pay me?"

"Enough to prevent me from being under an obliga-
tion to you. It will improve my position, too, for (bsa
I shall not feel that I am kept out of kindness."

244 HIS SERVANT

"Out of kindness?"

"Yes; you give me a dinner which is only half-cooked,
and then you go on repeating that you are my servant,
that is to say, that you are working yourself to death for
me."
"What are you driving at?"

"Is three dollars a day enough for my board? Any
* boarding-house will take me for two."
I "Three dollars ought to be plenty."
i "Very welll Let's say a thousand dollars per annum.
Here's the money in advance I"
He laid a bill on the table.
It was made out as follows:

Rent 500 dollars

Nurse's wages 100 "

Cook's wages 150 "

Wife's maintenance . ; 500 "

Wife's pin money 500 "

Nurse's maintenance 300 "

Cook's maintenance 300 "

Children's maintenance 700 "

Children's clothes 500 "

Wood, light, assistance 500 "

4050 dollars

"Divide this sum by two, since we share expenses equally,
that leaves 2025 dollars. Deduct my thousand dollars and
give me 1025 dollars. If you have got the money by you,
all the better."

"Share expenses equally?" was all the wife could say.
"Do you expect me to pay you, then?"

"Yes, of course, if we are to be on a footing of equality.
I pay for half of your and the children's support. Or do
you want me to pay the whole? Very weU, that would
mean that I should have to pay you 4050 dollars plus 1000
dollars for my board. But I pay separately for rent, food, .
light, wood and servants' wages. What do I get for my
thj-ee dollars a day for board? The prq>aratK>n of the
food? Nothing else but that for 4050 dollars? Now, if
I subtract really half of this sum, that is to say, my share

HIS SERVANT 245

of the expenses, 2025 dollars, then the preparation of my
food costs me 2025 dollars. But I have already paid the
cook for doing it; how, then, can I be expected to pay 2025
dollars, plus 1000 dollars for food?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I. But I know that I owe you nothing after
paying for the whole of your support, the children's sup-
port and the servants' support; the servants who do your
work, which, in your opinion, is equal, or superior, to mine.
But even if your work should really be worth more, you
must remember that you have another five hundred dollars
in addition to the household expenses, while I have nothing.'^

"I repeat that I don't understand your figures!"

"Neither do I. Perhaps we had better abandon the
idea of the boarding-house. Let's put down the debit and
credit of the establishment. Here's the account, if you'd
like to see it."

To Mrs. Blackwood for assistance in the house, and
to Mrs. Blackwood's cook and nursemaid:

Rent and maintenance 1000 dollars

Clothes 500

Amusements 100

Pin money (by cash) 500

Her children's maintenance 1200

Her children's education 600

On account of the maids who do her

work 850 "

4570 dollars
Paid M. Blackwood, Wharfinger

"Oh I It's too bad of you to worry your wife with
bills!"

"With counter-bills! And even that one you need not
pay, for I pay all bills."

The wife crumpled up the paper.

"Am I to pay for your children's education, too?"

"No, I will, and I shall, and I will also pay for your chil-
dren's education. You shall not pay one single farthing for
mine. Is that being on a footing of equality? But I s i

246 HIS SERVANT

deduct the sum for the maintenance of my children and
servants: then you will still have 2100 dollars for the as-
sistance you give to my servants. Do you want any more
bills?"
She wanted no more; never again.

THE BREADWINNER

HE wakes up in the morning from evil dreams of bills
which have become due and copy which has not been
delivered. His hair is damp with cold perspiration, and his
cheeks tremble as he dresses himself. He listens to the chir-
ruping of the children in the next room and plunges his
burning face into cold water. He drinks the coffee which
he has made himself, so as not to disturb the nursery maid
at the early hour of eight o'clock. Then he makes his bed,
brushes his clothes, and sits down to write.

The fever attacks him, the fever which is to create hal-
lucinations of rooms he has never seen, landscapes which
never existed, people whose names cannot be found in the
directory. He sits at his writing table in mortal anguish.
His thoughts must be clear, pregnant and picturesque, his
writing legible, the story dramatic; the interest must never
abate, the metaphors must be striking, the dialogue brilliant.
The faces of those automata, the public, whose brains he is
to wind up, are grinning at him ; the critics whose good-will
he must enlist, stare at him through the spectacles of envy;
he is haunted by the gloomy face of the publisher, which it
is his task to brighten. He sees the jurymen siting round
the black table in the centre of which lies a Bible; he hears
the sound of the opening of prison doors behind which free-
thinkers are suffering for the crime of having thought bold
thoughts for the benefit of the sluggards; he listens to the
noiseless footfall of the hotel porter who is coming with the
bill. ...

And all the while the fever is raging and his pen flies,
flies over the paper without a moment's delay at the vision
of publisher or jurymen, leaving in its trade red lines as
of congealed blood which slowly turn to black.

When he rises from his chair, after a couple of hours, he
has only enough strength left to stumble across the room.

247

248 THE BREADWINNER

He sinks down on his bed and lies there as if Death held
him in his clutches. It is not invigorating sleep which has
closed his eyes, but a stupor, a long fainting fit during which
he remains conscious, tortured by the horrible thought that
his strength is gone, his nervous system shattered, his brain
empty.

A ring at the bell of the private hotel! VaUd lefacteurl
The mail has arrived.

He rouses himself and staggers out of his room. A pfle
of letters is handed to him. Proofs which must be read at
once; a book from a young author, begging for a candid
criticism: a paper containing a controversial article to
which he must reply without delay, a request for a contri-
bution to an almanac, an admonishing letter from his pub-
lisher. How can an invalid cope with it all?

In the meantime the children's nurse has got up and
dressed the children, drunk the coffee made for her in the
hotel kitchen, and eaten the rolls spread with honey which
have been sent up for her. After breakfast she takes a
stroll in the park.

At one o'clock the bell rings for luncheon. All the guests
are assembled in the dining-room. He, too, is there, sitting
at the table by himself.

"Where is your wife?" he is asked on all sides.

"I don't know," he replies.

"What a brute!" is the comment of the ladies, who are
still in their morning gowns.

The entrance of his wife interrupts the progress of the
meal, and the hungry guests who have been punctual are
kept waiting for the second course.

The ladies enquire anxiously whether his wife has slept
well and feels refreshed? Nobody asks him how he feels.
There is no need to enquire.

"He looks like a corpse," says one of the ladies.

And she is right.

"Dissipation," says another.

But that is anything but true.

He takes no part in the conversation, for he has nothing

to say to these women. But his wife talks for two. While

swallows his food, his ears are made to listen to rich

THE BREADWINNER 249

praise of all that is base, and vile abuse of all that is noble
and good.

When luncheon is over he takes his wife aside.

"I wish you would send Louisa to the tailor's with my
coat; a seam has come undone and I haven't the time to sew
it up myself."

She makes no reply, but instead of sending the coat by
Louisa, she takes it herself and walks to the village where
the tailor lives.

In the garden she meets some of her emancipated friends
who ask her where she is going.

She replies, truthfully enough, that she is going to the
tailor's for her husband.

"Fancy sending her to the tailor's! And she allows him
to treat her like a servant!"

"While he is lying on the bed, taking an after-dinner nap!
A nice husband!"

It is quite true, he is taking an after dinner nap, for he
is suffering from anaemia.

At three o'clock the postman rings again; he is expected
to answer a letter from Berlin in German, one from Paris
in French, and one from London in English.

His wife, who has returned from the tailor's and re-
freshed herself with a cognac, asks him whether he feels
inclined to make an excursion with the children. No, he
has letters to write.

When he has finished his letters, he goes out for a stroll
before dinner. He is longing for somebody to talk to. But
he is alone. He goes into the garden and looks for the
children.

The stout nurse is sitting on a garden seat, reading Mrs.
Leffler's True Women which his wife has lent her. The
children are bored, they want to run about or go for a walk.

"Why don't you take the children for a walk, Louisa?"
he asks.

"Mistress said it was too hot."

His wife's orders!

He calls to the children and walks with them towards the
high road; suddenly he notices that their hands and faces
are dirty and their boots in holes.

250 THE BREADWINNER

"Why are the children allowed to wear such boots?" he
asks Louisa.

"Mistress said ..."

His wife said!

He goes for a walk by himself.

It is seven o'clock and dinner-time. The ladies have not
yet returned to the hotel. The two first courses have been
served when they arrive with flushed faces, talking and
laughing loudly.

His wife and her friend are in high spirits and smell of
cognac.

"What have you been doing with yourself all day^
daddy?" she asks her husband.

"I went for a walk with the children."

"Wasn't Louisa there?"

"Oh! yes, but she was otherwise engaged."

"Well, I don't think it's too much to ask of a man to keep
an eye on his own children," says the friend.

"No, of course not," answers the husband. "And there-
fore I scolded Louisa for allowing the children to run about
with dirty faces and worn-out boots."

"I never come home but I am scolded," says the wife;
"You spoil every little pleasure I have with your fault-
finding."

And a tiny tear moistens her reddened eyelids.

The friend and all the rest of the ladies cast indignant
glances at the husband.

An attack is imminent and the friend sharpens her
tongue.

"Has anybody here present read Luther's views on the
right of a woman?"

"What right is that?" asks his wife.

"To look out for another partner if she is dissatisfied
with the one she has."

There is a pause.

"A very risky doctrine as far as a woman's interests are
concerned," says the husband, "for it follows that in similar
circumstances a man is justified in doing the same thing.
The latter happens much more frequently than the former."

"I don't understand what you mean," says the wife.

THE BREADWINNER 251

IC

That's neither Luther's fault nor mine," answers the
husband. "Just as it is not necessarily the husband's fault
if he doesn't get on with his wife. Possibly he would get on
excellently with another woman."

A dead silence follows; the diners rise from their chairs.

The husband retires to his own room. His wife and her
friend leave the dining-room together and sit down in the
pavilion.

"What brutality!" exclaims the friend. "How can you, a
sensitive, intelligent woman, consent to be the servant of
that selfish brute?"

"He has never understood me," sighs the wife. Her sat-
isfaction in being able to pronounce these damning words
is so great, that it drowns ihe memory of a reply which her
husband has given her again and again:

"Do you imagine that your thoughts are so profound that
I, a man with a subtle brain, am unable to fathom them?
Has it never occurred to you that it may be your shallow-
ness which prevents you from understanding me?"

He sits down in his room, alone. He suffers from re-
morse, as if he had struck his mother. But she struck the
first blow; she has struck him blow after blow, for many
years, and never once before has he retaliated.

This coarse, heartless, C3mical woman, in whose keeping
he confided his whole soul with all its thoughts and emo-
tions, was conscious of his superiority, and therefore she
humiliated him, dragged him down, pulled him by the hair,
covered him with abuse. Was it a crime that he struck
back when she publicly taunted him? Yes — ^he felt as
guilty as if he had murdered his dearest friend.

The twilight of the warm summer night deepens and the
moon rises.

The sound of music from the drawing-room floats through
his window. He goes into the garden and sits down under
a walnut tree. Alone! The chords of the piano blend with
the words of the song:

When the veil 6f night was drawn
And crowded earth, mysterious sea
Became one sweet, enchanted ground
For us, until the starless dawn

252 THE BREADWINNER

Dissolved the failing moon — ^then we

In one long ecstasy were bound.

Now, I, alone in silence and in pain

Weep for the ache of well-remembered bliss.

For you who nevef can return again,

For you, my spring time, for your love, your kiss.

He strolls through the garden and looks through the
window. There she sits, Us living poem, which he has
composed for his own delight. She sings with tears in her
voice. The ladies on the sofas look at one another signifi-
cantly.

But behind the laurel bushes on a garden seat two men
are sitting, smoking, and chatting. He can bear what they
say.

"Nothing but the effect of the cognac."

"Yes, they say that she drinks."

"And blame the husband for it."

"That's a shame! She took to drinking in Julian's studio.
She was going to be an artist, you know, but she didn't
succeed. When they rejected her picture at the exhibition,
she threw herself at the head of this poor devil and married
him to hide her defeat."

"Yes, I know, and made his life a burden until he is but
the shadow of his former self. They started with a home
of their own in Paris, and he kept two maids for her; still
she called herself his servant. Although she was mistress
over everything, she insisted that she was but his slave.
She neglected the house, the servants robbed them right
and left, and he saw their home threatened with ruin with-
out being able to move a finger to avert it. She opposed
every suggestion he made; if he wanted black, she wanted
white. In this way she broke his will and shattered his
nerves. He broke up his home and took her to a boarding-
house to save her the trouble of housekeeping and enable
her to devote herself entirely to her art. But she
won't touch a brush and goes out all day long with her
friend. She has tried to come between him and his work,
too, and drive him to drink, but she has not managed
it; therefore she hates him, for he is the better of the
two."

THE BREADWINNER 253

'^ut the husband must be a fool," remarks the other
man.

"He is a fool wherever his wife is concerned, but he is
no exception to the rule. They have been married for
twelve years and he is still in love with her. The worst of
it is that he, the strong man, who commanded the respect
of Parliament and Press, is breaking up. I talked to him
this morning; he is ill, to say the least."

"Yes; I heard that she tried to have him locked up in a
lunatic asylum, and that her friend did everything in her
power to assist her."

"And he works himself to death, so that she can enjoy
herself."

"Do you know why she treats him so contemptuously?
Because he cannot give her all the luxury she wants. 'A
man who cannot give his wife all she wants,' she said the
other day at dinner, *ce n'est pas grand' chose.' I believe
that she counted on his booming her as an artist. Unfor-
tunately his political views prevent him from being on good
terms with the leading papers, and, moreover, he has no
friends in artistic circles; his interests lie elsewhere."

"I see; she wanted to make use of him for her own ends;
when he resisted she threw him over; but he serves his pvr'
pose as a breadwinner."

Now, I, alone in silence and in pain,

Weep for the ache of well-remembered bliss. . . .

comes her voice from the drawing-room.

"Bang! " the sound came from behind the walnut tree. It
was followed by a snapping of branches and a crunching of
sand.

The talkers jumped to their feet.

The body of a well-dressed man lay across the road, with
his head against the leg of a chair.

The song stopped abruptly. The ladies rushed into the
garden. The friend poured a few drops of eau de Cologne,
which she held in her hand, on the face of the prostrate man.

When she realised that it was no fainting fit, she started
back. "Horrible!" she exclaimed, patting her himd up to
her face.